


Clean Break

by marksmanfem



Series: Boondock Saints OC Arc [20]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Conflict of Interests, Crimes & Criminals, Desperation, F/M, Internal Conflict, Multi, Organized Crime, Panic Attacks, Phone Sex, Revelations, Shower Sex, St. Patrick's Day, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Vigilantism, Violence, What did you think was going to happen?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 124,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marksmanfem/pseuds/marksmanfem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's been dreaming for a while now. She's come home to Boston after two months away, and nothing is the way she left it. She knew she never should've left them alone. 19th in my Boondock Saints OC arc. Rated E for smut, language, and violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I'm going back through the whole story to fix typos and clean up some frayed edges that have been bothering me. Please let me know in the comments if you see anything you think I missed. Many thanks to bleedingrose0688 for the massive amount of effort, editing, support, and general help. Huge thanks to Siarh for supporting me through pretty much the whole series up to this point and beyond; talk about the best cheerleader a girl could ask for. Sunfrckle, your reviews alone have spurred on entire chapts. Thanks to everyone for reading, commenting, liking, or straight up helping me this far. If I didn't mention you by name, hopefully you know who you are.

I’m pretty sure that the two years I’ve been with Connor and Murphy are enough to have made me co-dependent. Or...I guess that would be tri-dependent in this case. Either way, day-to-day existence without those two jackasses has become increasingly difficulty for me. Absence and distance definitely make the heart grow fonder.  
  
Well, the heart and other body parts.  
  
I have been having the time of my life in New York, meeting people and learning more about my new job than I thought possible. I get a whole week with Jen acclimatizing me to our facilities in the city and introducing me to the people who are going to be training me alongside the other people who received similar promotions from other facilities around the world. She shows me around the neighborhood where my hotel is located and even takes me to a few tourist spots where I’d always wanted to go. Little Italy is absolutely gorgeous, and Jen and I even find a little hole-in-the wall that has a pignolata almost as good as where Rocco and I go. I nearly swoon when she takes me to the Cloisters, and I love every inch of Central Park that I come across.  
  
Jen can only stay a short time, though, and then she has to return to Boston to take up her non-undercover boss duties. Funny all those months I spent resenting her for landing the position I’d been working towards, and it turns out that not only did I land an even better job than I could have hoped for, but I also got a friend out of the deal. What with my crazy work hours and tendency to spend my free time with a bunch of men in an Irish pub, female friends aren’t exactly easy to come by these days.

My evenings and weekends are still plenty busy without her, with company dinners or drinks most nights. The company schedules group training sessions for all the upper level management positions at the time of year when most of the executives and company officers are already coming into town for various functions and conventions, so they can make sure everyone has the same information and system training. They also want to make sure as many people from different branches know each other as possible, so there are scores of people for me to meet.  
  
By the end of the third week, I think I’ve schmoozed (as well as I can) with ninety percent of the upper tier of my entire company. I’ve absolutely exhausted my fancy wardrobe and am forced to go shopping for at least a couple more pieces in the swanky boutiques of New York City (an experience with which I am woefully out of my depth). Jen recommends a few places to check out while I’m down here, and though my heart skips a couple of beats at the general pricing, I manage to find some things that won’t embarrass me at the severely ritzy company get togethers.  
  
Every night, though, no matter what time it is when I get done for the day, I call my guys before I go to sleep. We usually don’t talk for long, as none of us are big phone conversationalists, but I refuse to miss a single night.  
  
My nightmares have been pretty bad without them sleeping next to me, but I chalk it up to separation anxiety. I’ve managed to limit my panicked, two AM phone calls to them to about twice a week; I feel that’s a reasonable number.

Connor and Murphy take my anxiety in stride, doing their best to soothe me from two hundred miles away. Forcing myself to get up and work out until I’m ready to drop from physical exhaustion also helps, clearing my head and tiring me out enough so I can sleep through the rest of the night. I’m normally against any type of physical exertion that doesn’t result in orgasms, but I force myself to make an exception in the name of getting a little sleep.  
  
Not every night is a nightmare, though. Some nights I wake up drenched with sweat, panting and aching as physical need throbs painfully through my body. I’m left miserable and cranky with the female version of blue balls. Sadly, despite my best efforts, I just can’t seem to solve the problem myself, no matter what I do. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know how to get myself off, but after two years at the handsof the MacManus brothers, apparently I am just not good enough for myself anymore.  
  
I’m so spoiled it’s pathetic.  
  
After a couple of weeks of half-sleepless nights and restless dreams, I accidentally let slip to Murphy how frustrated I’m feeling. I’m sprawled on my otherwise empty queen-sized hotel bed, not even bothering to turn the covers down. I gave up on television long ago and have been unsuccessfully trying to find a satisfying position on the bed for the last ten minutes while We talk.  
  
I’m dressed only in one of the boys’ t-shirts and a pair of their boxers that I snatched before I left Boston. Even though both things are clean, I like to think they smell a little bit like the twins, a faint aroma of whiskey, cigarettes, and something else that I always think of as uniquely MacManus. Despite my lack of clothing, though, I’m overheated and crabby, snapping at every other thing out of Murphy’s mouth. It’s not that I mean to be so snarky; I just can’t seem to relieve all this tension constantly thrumming through me, and it’s seriously bringing out my inner bitch.  
  
“Why so frustrated, lass?” Murphy is sincerely concerned, and I smile despite my foul mood. I shift around so the phone receiver is cradled between my neck and shoulder, but I still can’t get comfortable.  
  
“I’ve been...having dreams. When I’m not having the stupid nightmares, I’m dreaming about you and Connor...and me...doing...stuff.”

Lack of sleep has done wonders for my vocabulary, I have to say.

“Stuff, eh?” A sound like a stifled laugh filters over the phone. I should be pissed at Murphy for laughing at me, but I honstly can’t blame him. I know I sound petulant and ridiculous.  
  
“Well, I mean, you know what I’m talking about,” I huff indignantly. “I’m not dead; I have needs too, and some of us can’t just yank it whenever we feel like it. Sometimes I need motivation or...Ugh, I don’t know! I’m horny as hell, and nothing I do to fix the problem ever seems to be enough! I blame you and your brother entirely, you know. I was perfectly capable of satisfying myself before I met you two.”  
  
He’s quiet, but it’s an amused silence, and I let out a long, slow breath, actively willing my irritation to drain away. “I know, I know, I swear I know. I’m really sorry. I miss you both, and I don’t seem to be handling that stress very well.”  
  
“Do ye have any neighbors in th’rooms around ye?” he asks randomly.  
  
“Not that I know of. I haven’t seen or heard anyone in over a week. Why do you want to know?” I’m distracted, still squirming around to find a position on the bed that isn’t putting a crick in my neck or reminding me too harshly that I’m alone in this giant bed.  
  
“Wanna try summat dat might help ye relax a bit.” His voice drops half an octave, becoming overwhelmingly tempting and dark. A pulse of sheer lust shoots through me, pooling hungrily in my lower belly.  
  
“O...kay,” I murmur, surprised. “What do you want me to do?”  
  
“Put me on speakerphone. Turn off th’lights, strip down, an’ get comf’terble on th’bed.”  
  
My breath hitches at the request, more of a command, really, and I do as Murphy says, replacing the receiver on the cradle and switching off my bedside lamp before shedding the few clothes I’m wearing. I stretch out on top of the bedspread, feeling an eager flutter beginning in my stomach.  
  
“Ye ready?” he asks softly.  
  
I swallow thickly, feeling my cheeks (and most of the rest of me) heat up. “How can you make me feel like this, and you’re not even in the same state?” I feel ridiculously exposed in my empty hotel room. I mean, I’m literally the only person in here, and I feel like I’m on display to the world. Or, at least, to Murphy. I can almost feel his dark eyes raking over me, heavy lidded and full of that intense longing that absolutely floors me whenever he directs it my way.  
  
“Cause ye know I’m feelin’ th’same thing you are right now, an’ ye prob’ly know what I’m about t’do t’ye. Now listen real careful like, follow me directions exactly, an’ make sure ye let me know how much yer likin’ it.”  
  
It’s good there’s no one in the neighboring rooms, because I let Murphy know exactly how much I like what he’s saying, loudly, quite clearly, and very often. From some of the noises reaching me through the phone, Murphy isn’t exactly having a horrible time, either.  
  
By the end of the conversation, I’m a sweating, jellified mess on the bed, and I am more relaxed than I’ve been since I left Boston.  
  
“Why didn’t you suggest this the first night I called you?” I ask, shivering as the aftershocks tingle through my limbs.  
  
“T’be honest, lass, I didn’t think ye’d go fer it,” Murphy says, and I swear I can hear the smirk in his voice. “But ye were so pitiful t’night, I figured might as well try it. Worst ye could do would be t’say no.”  
  
“I miss you.”  
  
“Miss ye, as well. How many diff’rent shades of red d’ye t’ink ye’ve turned t’night? Didje hit me favorite shade, or should we have another go at it?”  
  
I’m startled into laughing, and I roll on my side towards the phone. On the other end, I hear some shuffling sounds, and a brief, indistinct conversation, then Connor’s voice comes over the line, low and suspicious.  
  
“What were th’two of ye gettin’ up to? Murph’s a sweatin’ mess, an’ I caught him zippin’ his jeans as I was walkin’ in. Don’t tell me ye finally decided t’ask fer help wit’ all dat repressed sexual tension an’ ye waited til I wasn’t even here! Yer breakin’ me heart, love!”  
  
“Among other parts,” I snicker, wrestling around until I can pull the comforter out from under me under wrap it around myself. “I miss you, Connor. I feel kind of pathetic most nights when I can’t get to sleep without you two.”  
  
“No need fer that, girl. Ye miss us, an’ rightly so. Yer doin’ fine; it ain’t like yer hoppin’ th’train down every night t’get to us. Yer still functionin’ an’ doin’ yer job goin’ to all dem fancy dinners and shit. Proud of ye.”  
  
An unexpected rush of pleasure sweeps over me, and a goofy, sappy grin spreads across my face.  
  
“How do you always know the perfect things to say?”  
  
“Lots of trial an’ error,” he confides in a conspiratorial tone. “T’tell ye th’truth, I may have said a stupid thing or two t’me girl on occasion, an’ I’m tryin’ t’apply me hard earned knowledge so as not t’fuck t’ings up too often.”  
  
I giggle at his ridiculousness before stifling a yawn with the back of my hand.  
  
“I really don’t want to go, but I’m actually starting to fall asleep at a decent hour for the first time since I got up here. I love you, Connor.”  
  
“Love ye, lass. Quick question b’fore ye go. Do ye get pay-per-view in yer room?”  
  
“I think so,” I answer, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“Know ye said yer company gets th’bill fer yer room. Would dey get a list of all the t’ings ye ordered on th’television, as well?”  
  
I think about it for a moment, trying to remember how the room billing system works here.  
  
“I think so, because they’d need to know what the extra charges on the room are for. They have a corporate rate with this hotel, so they get the rooms at a set, cheaper price. I’ll owe them for the long distance calls I’m making, but I planned for that and told Jen ahead of time, so I know the phone calls will be okay with them. Why do you want to know about the pay-per-view?”  
  
In his most irresistible and charming lilt, Connor answers, “T’ought maybe ye could put on one o’dem adult films one night an’ ye could tell me ‘bout what yer watchin’. Somethin’ adventurous an’ all. Want t’make sure yer relaxed enough t’sleep, after all. Only have yer best int’rests at heart, o’course.”  
  
“I’m sure my sleep habits are the sole reason for your concern,” I say wryly. “Maybe we should hold off on the adult films until I get back to Boston where I don’t have to justify purchasing them to anyone.”  
  
“If ye t’ink it’s best, lass. Just offerin’ a suggestion fer some stress relief.” I can hear Murphy saying something in the background, though I can’t make it out.  
  
“Gonna let ye get t’sleep, lass, an’ Murph wants t’say goonight. Like he ain’t already had ye long enough on the phone as i’tis. Love ye, girl. Sleep safe.”  
  
“I love you, Connor. I promise I’ll ask for you first tomorrow night.”  
  
“Ye better. Here’s Murph.”  
  
I’m off the phone not long after Connor hands it off to Murphy, and by the time I lay back and snuggle into the slick bedspread, I’m drifting off into blissful, enveloping darkness that thankfully brings no dreams.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s St. Patrick's Day, and I consider calling Connor and Murphy since I probably won’t get to talk to them tonight, as they’ll be out far later than I’ll be awake. I know they go to mass early on days like this, so I glance at the clock, stifling a yawn as I slide into an opaque pair of tights.

 

I didn’t used to wear any kind of leg covering when I wore skirts into the office, but I’m self-conscious about the bright pink scar that runs along my right calf, a leftover from my altercation in December that reminds me how stupid it is to run into a fight without back-up. No one seems to notice it much but me, and nobody has made any disparaging remarks about it, but I usually only let it show when I’m alone with Rocco and the twins. It’s easier to cover it up than to answer the occasional questions of how I got it.

 

I suppose I could just truthfully say doing something stupid, but sometimes the words just stick in my throat.

  
It’s after seven-thirty, so the boys have most likely already left for church. I slide my gray pencil skirt over my hips, zipping it up as a grin spreads across my face. I can picture the two of them this morning, bleary-eyed and so not awake, Connor grumbling at Murphy to get a move-on, and Murphy sullenly ignoring everything out of his brother’s mouth. I’m usually in between their levels of awake in the morning, ready to get going but sure as hell not ready to talk to anyone.   
  
I give myself a pep-talk as I finish dressing; I can make it through today. I’ll be fine because I know I can talk to them tomorrow. They told me they took the day off as a precaution, although I highly suspect their boss Jim simply took them off the schedule since he knows from previous years that they’ll be absolutely useless for the better part of the day. I can totally until tomorrow to talk to them.   
  
I mean, I get to see them on Saturday when I go home. I can be strong. I can make it through the next three days.   
  
I can.   
  
We’ve been spending the last few days of my training going through the computer programs I’ll be using to track training records of individuals within the company, and today my supervisor is showing me how to link those records to workers’ personnel files so it can be accessed by any director at any of our branches.   
  
“This will be the program you use the most,” Steve reminds me as I click through the different fields to make sure I know what information each one needs. “I’m glad you’re picking it up so fast. It usually takes people weeks to get this down.”   
  
“As much as I’m enjoying working with you, I’d like to not have to call you every five minutes for the next six months,” I murmur as I scroll through another drop-down menu. “I’m as surprised as you are. I don’t have a lot of experience with computers. They only installed them office-wide about three years ago at my branch, and I’ve caught on pretty well to what we use there. I mean, my high school didn’t even get a computer lab until two years after I graduated. I learned how to type on an actual electric typewriter.”   
  
Steve grins, then leans down to point out another detail, and our conversation turns back to the technical aspects of the program.   
  
The day passes surprisingly quickly, and before I know it, we’re done. Steve and some of the other trainees invite me out for a St. Patty’s Day drink with them, and since I know the guys are already out, I accept their offer to tag along. I genuinely like the people I’ve training with, and I’m starting to get really excited about the travel aspects of my new job. I’ll get to visit facilities around the country and even a few in other countries for a couple of months spread out over the year, working with them on their techniques and bringing the information back to apply at my own branch.   
  
Plus, I’ve managed to survive nearly two months without Connor and Murphy physically with me, so I’m starting to think I can really do this.   
  
I get back to my hotel room around eleven and am strangely comforted by the site of the ridiculously outdated, floral wallpaper and overly squashy arm chair. I’m pretty tired, so even the slick bedspread beckons me.   
  
I see the message light blinking on my phone, and feel a tiny thrill of pleasure. Shucking my heels and moaning in ecstasy as my aching arches sink into the heavenly plush of the carpet, I pad barefoot over to the bed and press the button for speaker phone before playing the message.   
  
“Lass, we love ye an’ wish ye were here!” Connor’s drunken voice slurs out loudly across my room. There’s shouting and laughter in the background, and I wonder how the boys managed to talk Doc into letting them call long distance from the bar.   
  
Murphy chimes in, just as drunkenly, “Ye can’t possibly be havin’ half t’fun ye’d be havin’ wit’ us, even if ye do go out! Th’lads miss ye at McGinty’s, an’ we’re savin’ a shot for ye soon’s ye get back! We’re gonna get ye plastered dis weekend!”   
  
I hear a muffled sound, then Rocco says, “These jackasses are three sheets to the wind, and they grabbed the phone before Doc knew what they were doin’. We miss ya, hun, and I need ya to get back as soon as you can. They’re drivin’ me bathshit. Have a good night.” I smile as I press the replay button. I’ll listen to it just one more time before I go to bed.     
  
Okay, maybe twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one's short, so don't throw things. I've got the next one almost ready; this was just a logical break in the flow of story, so you get a short one right away and a longer one in a bit. For future clarification (because sometimes I confuse even myself), here are some story tidbits to keep in mind:
> 
> 1\. When I refer to Duffy at McGinty's, I'm referring to one of the brothers from Served Cold who came over for Christmas dinner. I based Duffy the Elder and Duffy the Younger (T-Duff, as he called himself) on Troy Duffy from the first movie, so when you picture T-Duff, picture the master himself. I made them brothers because Troy Duffy talks about how his brother helped with some of the script and ideas; thus they were both added into the story.
> 
> 2\. I have kept as closely as possible to the story line of the actual movie except where the official movie storyline contradicts itself. Ex: Rocco says Vincenzo goes to the Sin Bin on Wednesday nights, but if you follow the story, they do the hit on the Sin Bin the same day Rocco shoots up the diner/deli/coffee shop (depending on which movie character is talking about the hit), which took place the day after the cat is shot, which took place the same day as the Copley Plaza, which took place the day after Connor and Murphy got jumped by the Russians, which took place the day after St. Patty's Day. Hence, the Sin Bin actually happens on a Saturday, not a Wednesday. I know, I know. Obsessive much.
> 
> 3\. Any newspaper or television report quotes are as close to authentic and accurate as I can get. Like, paused the movie and copied down the damn newspaper, had the subtitles on so I could get the quotes down correctly, I have no other life outside of this, work, and my baby kind of obsessive. I know, trust me, I know. 4. Thank my wonderful husband for a lot of the best ideas for the last several stories, as he patiently listens to me natter on and debates with me for literally hours on end about the best way the stories should go and whether characters would actually do the things I have them doing. He saved Served Cold, and he sure as hell saved this story. He even named it. Thanks so much for reading, and please let me know if you'd like me to continue.


	3. Chapter 3

I figure it’s safe to call Connor and Murphy around lunch time the next day, thinking they’ll either be up or close to it by then. When I ring their place, though, there’s no answer. I try again, letting the phone ring a ridiculous number of times before giving up. They’re either so dead drunk asleep they can’t even hear the phone ringing, or they somehow managed to wake up at a semi-decent hour and are already out for the day.  
  
More likely the first one.  
  
But when I call during my afternoon break, I can’t even get their phone to ring; all I get is that annoying busy signal. Maybe they’re on the phone with Ma. Nobody else but me calls them, and they don’t ever seem to call anyone else. I’m pretty sure they only got the phone in the first place so they could talk to their mother.  
  
I feel a nagging worm of anxiety begin to gnaw in my stomach, but I do my best to shrug it off. Sometimes people go out, and sometimes they're on the phone. Sometimes people don’t answer their phones for completely legitimate reasons. It happens. I understand that I’m being ridiculous and paranoid, so I force myself to go back to work and concentrate on training. But now I’m worried, and I don’t honestly know why.  
  
I hate that feeling.  
  
Steve doesn’t comment negatively on my work, so I figure I’m able to smother my distraction enough to be passably normal. The day drags, but I finally finish and make a quick exit, managing to avoid the usual dinner invitations with as much finesse as I can muster. I grab a taxi straight back to my hotel, and despite the traffic I manage to make it back to my room by six. I order take-out from the first menu I grab from the night stand, barely registering that it’s something Asian without really seeing what it is I ordered. I might regret that later, but I have a really uneasy feeling, and I need to talk to Connor and Murphy.  
  
They’re fine, I know they’re fine, I really do. I’m just being stupid and obsessive and ridiculous. They should know to call me; they know I was going to call them during the day, and since they haven’t heard from me, they’ll know they should call. I can be patient and wait for the boys to call me. I can totally...  
  
“Who am I kidding?” I mutter as I pick up the phone and start punching in their number. Their phone still gives me a busy signal, though. There’s no way they’d be talking on it again. Maybe they tried to call me at the same time I called them?  
  
I give them five minutes, then I try their number again. This time, I get a different noise; not the busy signal, but the other three-toned one that makes you want to punch the phone in the face, followed by an eye-twitchingly calm female voice saying, “The number you have dialed has been disconnected. If you think you have received this message in error, please hang up and try the number again.”  
  
My eyebrows rise up in bewilderment. Disconnected? Why? Did they forget to pay their phone bill? They’ve never forgotten to pay their phone bill. Well, actually, now that I think about it, I’m not even sure they have a phone bill. I mean, their apartment is illegal loft housing; how would they even legally hook up a phone? Unless they illegally hooked it up and now it’s legally been disconnected.  
  
I shake my head, trying to pull my wandering thoughts back into some sort of order. Okay, so for whatever totally legitimate and not worrisome reason, Connor and Murphy’s phone is out of order. So, who else could I call to try and get a hold of them?  
  
I chew pensively on my lip for a minute before giving in and dialing Rocco’s number. Settling my uneasiness will be worth the ribbing I get from him about checking up on the guys.  
  
But no one answers at Rocco’s place, either.  
  
Throwing all caution to the wind, I dial McGinty’s number. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until Doc answers the phone with a halting, “M..M...McGinty’s. How c..c..can I h...h..h...Fuck! Ass! Whatcha want?”  
  
I smile despite myself. “Hey, Doc, it’s Grace. I’ve been trying to get Connor and Murphy all day, and I can’t get through to them. Are they there?”  
  
“Good t’hear yer voice, lass! The b..b..boys ain’t here, they’re down at th..th...the p...p...p...Fuck! They're locked up!”  
  
My eyebrows shoot up and I feel my jaw drop. “They’re at the police station? What happened last night?”  
  
Before Doc can answer, I hear the phone change hands, and a slightly familiar voice says, “Grace, this is Duffy. Con and Murph are spending the night down at the precinct. They’re not locked up; they turned themselves in, and they aren’t being charged with anything. The police said it was self-defense. They had to use their call to get Rocco to bring them clothes since they were there in their underwear, or they probably would’ve called you.”  
  
I let out a nervous laugh before I can stop myself. “So you’re saying I missed one hell of a St. Patty's Day?”  
  
“You could say that,” he agrees wryly. There are subdued noises in the background, and I wonder if everyone’s just quiet with post-St. Patrick’s Day hangovers. It’s Thursday night; not the most crowded of bar-going nights at McGinty’s but certainly livelier than what I’m hearing over the phone. I shrug off my uneasiness again and search for something conversational to say.  
  
“I really should've been there, huh?” I sigh, willing my nerves to unknot. I roll my shoulders, wincing at the popping noise and willing myself to relax.  
  
Instead of agreeing, Duffy hesitates, then says, “I wouldn’t go that far. Probably best you were out of town.”  
  
“What do you mean?” I ask, immediately going on alert again. “And why did Connor and Murphy have to turn themselves in for self-defense in a bar fight?” I’ve been with them for many a fight in the last couple of years, and not once in that time has anyone pressed charges even after the worst of ass-beatings. We’re talking trips to the Emergency Room and still no police involvement.  
  
“I think they should be the ones to talk to you about last night. I’ll tell Rocco to call you if he comes in again, and I’ll make sure those assholes know they fucked up not calling you in the first place. They shoulda spent the night at the station in their damned bathrobes instead of you having to call all over Southie just to find out about their dumb asses.”  
  
“But...they’re okay?” I ask, feeling my throat start to tighten.  
  
“They’re fine,” he says quickly, catching on to my panic. “They’re a little banged up, but like I said, they’re free to go and aren’t being held. They’re just spending the night at the station to avoid the press.”  
  
“The press?!” I squeak, absolutely floored. “What the fuck did you guys do last night?!”  
  
“Shit.” Duffy exhales defeatedly. “I just made it worse, didn’t I? Grace, the boys are okay, I swear. Doc saw ‘em this morning, and Rocco took them some stuff down at the station this afternoon. They both said Connor and Murphy are okay. We will make absolutely sure they call you tomorrow. I promise they’re fine.”  
  
“Okay.” I breathe slowly in through my nose and out through my mouth a couple of times. “Okay. I can live with that for now. I, uh…I guess if you talk to them before I do, just…ask them to call me? I’m not going to make you tell them I love them or anything embarrassing like that. Tell Doc and Rocco I said thanks and that I wish one of them had called me to let me know what was going on. Thanks, Duffy.”  
  
“No problem, hun. Come back soon, we miss you down here.”  
  
“Saturday night,” I promise. “I’m catching the early train back Saturday morning.”  
  
“See ya then,” he replies, and the line clicks. I hang up before the dial tone can start whining in my ear.

 

So, now I know Connor and Murphy are alive. They are apparently hurt, but not badly enough to warrant the hospital, or they would be there instead of the police station. Unless they’re being stubborn assholes and not going to the hospital when they actually need to. Or they went to the hospital before they went to the police and Duffy didn’t tell me because he didn’t want me to worry.  
  
Son of a bitch. I am so not going to sleep tonight.  
  
I do sleep eventually, but instead of the usual nightmares filled with empty cities and departing twins, I find myself reliving a night from a couple of months ago: a peaceful, boring Friday night in January when nothing unusual or even remarkable happened.

 

Connor and Murphy have dragged Rocco over to watch a movie on my TV. Connor insists on making popcorn while directing Rocco to find some Bruce Lee movie-of-the-week that’s playing on one of the local stations, and Murphy deposits a couple of six packs in the fridge, sticking a couple of beers in the freezer to chill while I change into a t-shirt and some cut-off sweatpants. I don’t mind my scar showing when it’s just the four of us; while I know it doesn’t actively bother them too much, it’s the one area that is sacred enough to the twins that they never tease me about it.

 

We all learned our lessons from that incident fairly well, it seems.

 

I’m so wonderfully relaxed and comfortable, leaning back against Murphy who has his arm slung across my middle. Connor is at the other end of the couch, absentmindedly rubbing my feet while Rocco reclines in my arm chair, one hand in the bowl of popcorn and the other flipping through television channels with the remote control.  
  
“What channel was the movie on, again?” he asks around a mouthful.  
  
I shrug, yawning and turning my face into Murphy’s shoulder, snuggling closer into his side and clutching his arm tightly to my stomach. Connor’s hands slow in their ministrations on my feet, which is, of course, entirely unacceptable. I poke him sharply in the ribs with my big toe, and he lets out a satisfying yelp, snatching my foot away from his side. He shoots me a mock stern glare, to which I respond with a bland, innocent smile.  
  
Holding my ankle up for display, he examines the bottom of my foot, and I am immediately suspicious of his intentions. Sure enough, he raises the fingers of his other hand, wiggling them threateningly towards the bottom of my hyper-ticklish appendage. I jerk away from him, rearing back into Murphy who ambushes me, pinning my arms to my side and holding me in place for his brother’s torture.  
  
“Seriously, you three? Can’t you keep that shit in the bedroom?” Rocco whines. He continues channel surfing as I squeal and struggle futilely against the twins’ attentions, laughing as I try to pull away from both of them at the same time while attempting to not fall off the sofa.

 

Rocco crows triumphantly as he stumbles across the openings credits of _Fist of Fury_. Connor’s attention is immediately diverted away from my feet and back to the television. I snort, not surprised or even really annoyed, and shake my head at Connor’s abrupt abandonment. Murphy releases my arms but reaches a finger out and turns my face to him. He brushes his lips lightly across mine, smirking down at me.  
  
“Don’t worry, lass,” he murmurs, nudging my nose with his. “I still love ye, even if he doesn’t.” He settles against the corner of the sofa once more, pulling me firmly against him. I smile to myself, taking in a long, content breath through my nose and letting it out with a happy sigh.  
  
Something is off, though. I can’t place it, at first, and it takes me a minute to figure out exactly what’s bothering me. Along with the expected scents of popcorn and MacManus, there’s a new smell in the air; I don’t remember this smell being there in the apartment on the actual movie night, and I don’t recognize it, although I feel like I should. I sniff again, trying to place the familiar but somehow disturbing smell. It’s heavy and sort of metallic. Pennies, maybe? The longer I try to identify it, the stronger the smell gets until it wholly saturates the air, overwhelming any other odors. It’s just…wrong, somehow.  
  
While I’m still puzzling out the overpowering smell, Connor gently takes my foot in his hands to resume his earlier massage. Instead of the familiar, comforting feeling his contact usually evokes, though, his skin is slick and sticky against mine, a revolting sensation that has me drawing my foot back the moment he touches me. The movie must be more riveting than I realize because no one seems to notice my sudden, adverse reaction to Connor’s touch.

 

“What-?” I start to ask, glancing down before I nearly choke on my own exclamation. Crimson streaks my foot and ankle where Connor held me, and I can’t stop myself from following the red splashes across the sofa and straight to…  
  
“Connor,” I breathe, stuck in that frozen dream-state where I want to scream but can’t get out any noise over a whisper. “Your wrists...your...thigh. What...how did...when could you…”  
  
My heartbeat pounds in my ears, the smell of what I realize now is blood clogging my nostrils and turning my stomach. I lean towards Connor, unable to tear my eyes from his shredded wrists. The skin is raw and torn, bleeding sluggishly but steadily, and the thigh of his jeans is soaked scarlet from his knee to his hip.  
  
As in all of the worst nightmares, I open my mouth to scream in horror, but nothing comes out except for a whistling of panicked breath. Connor is oblivious both to my distress and his ghastly injuries; his attention is fixed on the action movie blaring incongruously in the background.  
  
“How did this happen? How could I let this happen?” Though I can barely hear my own whimpers, Connor seems to hear me just fine, and his head swivels in my direction. Rivulets of blood slide down his face like crimson tree roots, streaking his cheek and jaw though he doesn’t seem to feel either the wound or the blood.  
  
“Don’t fuss yerself, girl, ye didn’t do a thing wrong,” Connor says, his gaze settling calmly on me. “Dis was bound t’happen whether you were here or not. I was protectin’ me family. I’ve done th’same fer you an’ Roc an’ Ma, an’ I’ll do it again. It’s what I do.”  
  
He is discordantly calm, not reacting in the slightest even as he continues to bleed from his wounds. I blink my eyes hard, willing myself to wake up.  
  
I reach out for him, thinking I can do something to at least cover his wounds, but the hands that stretch towards him are strange to me, can’t possibly be my own. I know my hands, and they aren’t supposed to be as obscene as Connor’s, as streaked and sanguine. But even as I feel my hands shaking with distress, I see the grotesque appendages begin to quiver as well, and I realize that somehow I have become just as bloody as Connor.  
  
But I have no wounds, I realize. Under the thick, viscous mess, my flesh is whole and unharmed. So, where is it coming from?  
  
“Roc, ye wanna pass th’popcorn over here?” Murphy says, releasing me and stretching his hand out past me.  
  
God in Heaven.  
  
I jerk away from Murphy and the gaping hole in his tricep. Crimson droplets spatter freely in my vacated seat, and I look down to see my t-shirt clinging morbidly to my torso, red and utterly ruined.  
  
“Somethin’ amiss?” Murphy asks, his eyes concerned as I scramble backwards off the sofa, landing on my ass on the floor, pulling the fabric away from my skin in a panic. My stomach clenches hard against the urge to vomit in terror as my eyes swing from one bloody twin to the other.  
  
“Yeah, hun, what’s goin’ on? Hey, Con, can ya hand the bowl to Murphy?”

  
Though I know in my bones that I absolutely should not look, I can’t stop the compulsion that turns my gaze to Rocco’s outstretched hand and the bowl of popcorn. Then I really do gag, clapping my hand over my mouth as tears burst from my eyes. My mind reels against what I’m seeing, trying to shut out the sight of my mangled best friend, but I can’t look away.  
  
The hand holding out the bowl is utterly ruined, the pinky finger ripped off and just…gone. Blood flows thickly from the stump on his left hand, coating the contents of the bowl like cheap movie theater butter. I will never be able to eat popcorn again after this.

 

“Roc, your hand! Where the hell did your finger go?” My voice is strangled, barely reaching my own ears. I look around as if I might find the missing digit, but everywhere I look now, blood and gore are splashed. Bits of torn clothing and things I can barely identify -is that skin? - are strewn over the top of my coffee table and the fabric of my couch and chair. An iron, smoking and stained, rests incongruously on the corner of the table, the pieces of burnt flesh that cling to it sending their noxious fragrance into the air.

 

“Sorry, hun, didn’t catch that. Did you want some of the popcorn, too?”

 

I make the mistake of actually looking into the proffered bowl despite my fearful premonition. My eyes are drawn inexorably to the finger resting cold and lifeless on top of the kernels, just as I somehow knew it would be.

 

My stomach can’t take any more, and I twist to the side, vomiting until it feels like my entire abdomen is hollow. Dry heaves rack my body even after the contents of my stomach have ejected themselves, and I swear hours before I’m able to push myself away from the puddle on my floor, sobbing and shivering.  
  
“This is a nightmare. I’m asleep, and this is a fucking nightmare.”  
  
I shut my eyes against everything, pressing the heels of my bloodstained palms hard against my face as my chest and stomach heave with every shuddering breath.  
  
“I don’t understand,” I whimper, shivering. “I don’t understand, I don’t...when did this happen?”  
  
“Not fer a few days yet,” Murphy replies casually. “Gonna need yer help when it does, though. Need t’stop th’bleedin’, an’ we can’t go t’hospital this time. Too many questions.”  
  
My help. They need my help. They think I can help with...with this? Turbulence racks my mind until I can’t think straight. Blood permeates everything, the smell clogging my nostrils and sliding between my hands and my face, gluing my eyelids shut and slicking my hair to my scalp.

  
I need to...something, there has to be something I can…Maybe I could...  
  
“I can’t help you,” my voice finally rises above a strangled whisper. I sound shrill, alarmed, and I don’t recognize my voice at all. “How can I help with this? I can’t...I don’t know how...Murphy, I told you a long time ago I don’t know...I only know basic things. I don’t know how to help with this, I can’t help you! How can you even think I could?”  
  
I open my eyes and find myself standing, facing the three of them though I’m sure I never moved. They’re lined up on the couch now, Connor and Murphy still in their seats but with Rocco between them. And though I should be screaming now that I’ve found my voice, all I can do is stare frozenly at them.  
  
Each of their faces is a bruised, beaten, bloody horror. Murphy’s mouth is ringed with blood, as if he’s been hit repeatedly, and I want to ask about his teeth, but that numb sensation has spread to my tongue, and I am once more silent. His hand rests on his thigh, the thumb somehow ruined and sticking out at an odd angle. Connor’s throat is bruised, dark lines ringing his neck under his chin, and Rocco…  
  
Oh, God.  
  
His face is lacerated and bruised. His perpetual white t-shirt is now maroon and nauseatingly gory. Another one of his fingers is gone, the pinky on his right hand torn away like the other one, but that’s not even close to the worst. There’s a hole in his chest, small but utterly fatal and centered right over his heart. His torso seems sunken around the wound, with pieces of skin and muscle surrounding the hole as crimson stains through the material of his shirt, adhering the fabric to his skin. Every beat of his ruined heart pushes more vital fluid from his body, and I have no idea how he’s still moving.  

  
Then it’s as if a switch is flipped, and my brain can’t process what I’m seeing anymore. The carnage and gore abruptly seem so acceptable, as if everything is exactly the way it should be. I stare at the three of them, coolly taking in all the grisly details. They’re like characters in a grindhouse film, one of the gruesome ones I refuse to watch with Connor, the kind where the crew must have purchased red paint by the barrel. They stare back up at me, oblivious to the damage, waiting for me to speak again.  
  
It’s as if my brain has shifted on track with theirs, and I accept the situation easily and calmly, taking everything in with a detached interest that should disturb me.  
  
“How did this start?”  
  
“Same as it’s starting with you, hun,” Rocco answers. “They had a dream that told ‘em they were needed. And now you’re having your dream. Now you know they need ya. We all need ya, really. I ain’t gonna lie, it’s gonna get real bad.”  
  
“What happened to all of you?”  
  
“We did what needed t’be done,” Connor says as he turns back to the movie still blaring behind me. He looks straight through me as he continues. “Destroy all that which is evil.”  
  
“So that which is good may flourish,” Murphy adds conversationally, reaching a hand into the ruined popcorn.  
  
“And we can’t ever stop. We’re gonna need your help,” Rocco says. “We ain’t all gonna make it, and you gotta be there for the ones who do. Hardest shit we’ve ever gone through. But you gotta keep ‘em goin’. Ya can’t let ‘em stop. Ya get ‘em outta here.”  
  
I feel automated, like a robot being guided through a series of commands. Something is asking these questions through me, forcing me to hear truths I don’t want to know.  
  
“Who do you want me to get out of here? The twins? Why not you? How could I help you? What could you possibly need me for in the middle of all of this?”  
  
An itchy, sticky sensation shivers over my skin, and I realize the blood on my skin is beginning to dry. I glance down to see small pieces flaking off my legs like some sort of macabre baby powder.  
  
“Lass, we need ye fer everythin’, always,” Murphy says. I look back up at him only to find him completely unharmed and spotless. I glance at Connor and Rocco and find them much the same. Both are whole, uninjured, with no traces of the blood and wounds they were both covered in. Everyone is back in their original positions, with Rocco in the arm chair munching on the pristine popcorn. I shudder, pinching my lips closed automatically against the wave of revulsion that washes through me.  
  
Sensation starts to trickle back into my limbs, bringing with it the creeping dread that filled me before. I can function, I can handle myself now that I see they’re actually okay, but the memory still burns behind my eyes. I reach up to rub the images away only to find I’m still covered in Connor and Murphy’s blood. The crimson streaks are drying but still tacky, staining deep into my skin. I know immediately and irrevocably that I will never be rid of the sight of their blood on my hands.  
  
“ _Don’t forget_.”  
  
I turn in place, looking for the source. It’s the same voice from my other dreams, the resonant, haunting one that continuously tells me I have to release Connor and Murphy.  
  
“We told ye we wouldn’t leave ye again, an’ we meant it when we said it,” Connor says suddenly, and I wonder if he heard the voice as well. “Ye gotta trust us. The voice told us what we need t’do, an’ we know th’path now. Just gotta find th’start o’th’trail.”  
  
“The voice told me I need to let you go. If you’re listening to the voice, then why shouldn’t I?”  
  
“Because ye don’t let people give ye shit,” Connor says, smiling. “Ye don’t let us tell ye what t’do. Why th’fuck would ye listen to a dream?”  
  
“An’ when th’time comes, y’do hafta let us go,” Murphy adds. “But this is just a dream, r’member? Can’t put stock in some fucked up dream, can ye? Now, do ye want to come back down here so we c’n finish th’movie? ‘Tis no fun watchin’ wit’out ye.”  
  
For a long moment, all I can do is gape at them, dumbfounded. This whole situation is moving so much faster than I can grasp. Not a minute ago, they were staring up at me like the victims of some slasher film, and now they’re completely whole and want me to rejoin them for movie night.  
  
“But I’m covered-” I begin.  
  
“We’ll take ye however y’come to us, lass,” Connor says, holding a hand out to me.  
  
I just can’t make myself believe that they would want or need me in this state. I’ll ruin everything, and they’ll never-  
  
“Lass,” Connor says, drawing my shattered attention back to him. His hand still hovers steadily in the air, offering sanctuary from the storm of uncertainty that is tearing through my very soul. “We need ye. We love ye. Do ye believe us?”  
  
I nod reluctantly. I do believe them, but-  
  
“Then ye gotta trust us. Come back to us while there's still time. Whatever happens, we still have now.”  
  
Now is all we ever have, I think abruptly, and take his hand. He pulls me down to the sofa, and Murphy opens his arms, inviting me back to his side. Neither of them acknowledges or even seems to care about the mess of gore crusting my limbs and clothing.

  
So, like nothing out of the ordinary ever happened, we settle in to finish the movie.  
  
Despite the horrible things I’ve just seen, gentle peace and reassurance seeps into me wherever I’m touching Connor and Murphy. As my body slowly relaxes against the twins, I find myself sinking deeper into sleep until I finally reach a place where I thankfully can’t dream anymore.  
  
I wake up in the morning with only the vaguest memories of my night terrors and a very strong conviction that I need to see a shrink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. So. This one was longer. That's good, right? I do understand that I also need to see a shrink. Please drop me a line to let me know if you want me to keep going with this. Thanks for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEFORE YOU READ THIS CHAPTER!!! I was very unhappy with the final results of my first three chapters on this story, and then I had a sudden flash of realization that they didn't have to literally be the final results. Many thanks to Siarh and bleedingrose0688, two fabulous authors on this site who helped me dig down deep and pull out some much more satisfying work. I've redone the first three chapters and added a fairly significant amount of text and story. I think I even doubled the first chapter. Please, if you can, give ti a look because I'm so much happier with it. Thank you for following the story. Now on the to good stuff!

The next day, I fight every instinct I have not to pack up and get on the first train back to

Boston. I can’t remember the horrors of last night’s dream; all I have is a sense of foreboding comparable to what Cassandra must have felt when she tried to warn Troy about the incoming Greeks. Without understanding why, I just know that I need to see Connor and Murphy as soon as I absolutely can.

But I can’t miss this last day of training, and I hope to God someone from Boston will call me if there’s an actual emergency, so I plaster a smile on my face, slather some extra concealer over the shadows under my eyes, and head in to meet more of the bigwigs and executives I’ll be reporting to directly in my new position. If I seem distraught or off my game, no one notices or says anything. I even manage to make some decent jokes and small talk at the last meet-and-greet. Before I know it, I’ve muscled my way through the evening, and I can finally leave.

I get back to my room as fast as I absolutely can and start packing, frantically stuffing things into my bags, wondering why I didn’t do this last night as soon as I got off the phone with Duffy. I’m just zipping my suitcase when the phone rings. Even though I’m all the way across the room, I have the receiver in my hand before the second ring finishes.

“Connor? Murphy? Are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt?”

“We’re fine, lass.”

Connor’s voice washes over me in a warm, comforting wave, and my knees melt from sheer relief. I drop heavily onto the bed, and to my infinite embarrassment and shame, I can feel tears spring to my eyes as a knot forms in my throat.

“I’m packed,” I manage to choke out despite my cracking voice. “I can just make the last train home if I leave now, and-”

“Lass, ye don’t have t’leave t’night,” Connor says quickly. “Ye’ve already got yer ticket paid fer t’morrow mornin’ in, what? Ye bought yer ticket fer th’ 4:30 train, so yer gonna leave in about eight hours anyway. Ye don’t have t’worry ‘bout us, we swear we’re fine. If ye left now, ye wouldn’t even get in ‘til somewhere around one in th’mornin’. Ye don’t need to-”

There’s a muffled sound in the background, some thumps, and then Murphy takes over.

“We’re gonna meet ye t’omorra at th’ diner, yeah? Just like we planned. Yer train gets in around 9:30, ye come t’th’diner straight from the train station, then th’whole day is just for us. Been plannin’ fer two months now, love. We’re really fine. Got some scrapes an’ bruises, but that’s a typical night out fer us.”

“But your typical nights out don’t land you in jail,” I bite out, my worry being pushed to the side by my growing frustration. “You didn’t call me, Rocco didn't call me, and apparently every freaking person at McGinty’s knew how you were doing, and no one called me!”

“Aye,” Murphy says slowly, and I can hear the shame in his voice. “Dat was tot’lly our fault, lass, we told everyone not t’tell ye. Afraid ye’d worry too much.”

I let the silence stretch out, long, heavy, and uncomfortable, until Murphy finally says, “We've figured out dat was t’wrong call, an’ we don’t plan t’leave ye outta t’loop like dat again. T’ing is, shit got real complicated over t’last couple o'days, an’ we’re still tryin’ t’figure it out. We’re gonna tell ye everyt’in’, but we’re kinda out in public right now, an’ it’s not t’place fer dis kinda discussion.”

“Why aren’t you calling from your place?” I ask, mystified. “What’s wrong with your phone? I keep getting a busy signal when I call, and it was disconnected the last time I called. Did you forget to pay your phone bill or something?”

The phone slips against my palm, and I realize my hand has grown slick with sweat, though it’s nowhere close to hot in my room. I swipe my hand across my slacks, irritated, and wait for one of them to answer.

I hear the phone change hands again, and Connor says, “Apartment flooded, an’ we can’t really stay dere fer a while. Gonna crash at Rocco’s t’night”

“Why don’t you just stay at my place?” They sound so normal and unconcerned, but after the dream from last night that I can’t even remember, something is so off kilter about this whole situation. I’m still very much of a mind to jump the next train back to Boston.

“We would, but we’re already set up at Roc’s place. Listen, lass, we can’t wait t’s see ye t’omorra, we swear. Do ye believe us?”

“I do, but-”

“Den ye gotta trust us one more time when we ask ye t’wait til t’morra t’come back. We love ye, an’ we’ll see ye first t’ing at th’diner. We hafta go; please just trust us.”

“I love you,” I murmur, and I can’t tell whether my heart, my brain, or my stomach is in the most knots right now. “You’ve got me worried as hell, you know that, right?”

“We know,” Murphy chimes in. “There’s summat we’ve gotta take care of at 9:00 t’night, so we gotta go, but we’ll explain everythin’ t’morra. We swear. We love ye. Get some rest, an’ we’ll see ye in th’mornin’. Gotta go.”

He hangs up, and I sit on the edge of my bed, listening to the dial tone until I finally remember to hang up the phone. They know they’ve got me worried; they literally said as much. And neither of them even hinted at apologizing. This one detail is so off-putting that for a long moment, I just stare at the floor, not sure what I should be doing right now. Everything in my world has just been shifted a tiny bit off course, and it’s thrown me for a loop I can’t seem to step out of.

Eventually, I force myself to go through the motions of getting ready for bed, robotically pulling on my t-shirt and boxers and brushing my teeth because that’s what I’m supposed to do. I fold down the bedspread and lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling until my eyes adjust to the darkness. I watch random shadows flicker around the room as traffic passes by long into the night, and I try my hardest not to think about anything whatsoever.

  
Tonight, I don’t sleep at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the lovely reader Sunfreckle brought to my attention that one of the stories in my arc, Served Cold, was not linked to the arc in as part of the series. In case some of this doesn't make as much sense, or in case Now, Then didn't make a lot of sense, or both, Served Cold came right after Served Hot and is slightly (read: kinda, a little, or just plain very) important in the arc. Very much affects the dynamic of the storyline so far. If you missed it, go back and take a gander before this one finishes up, because I'm goign to start referring back to the incidents therein even more in the future of this story.
> 
> As always, thank you for the kudos, follows, reads, and comments. You are all lovely. Let me know if I should keep this saga up. Cheers.

I’m out of my hotel before the sun has even risen the next day, wrapped in my coat and toting my luggage across the train platform by four-thirty. Without the sun, the city is chilled and as eerily close to quiet as it can get; nothing like deserted, but definitely the fewest people I’ve seen in any public place since I got here. The streetlights are still on, glowing softly through the fog that creeps down from the top of the main station building as I step onto the train.

 

No one else has boarded this car yet, so I settle into a window seat, staring blankly at the glass and willing the train to get ready a little faster. We finally set off from the station, but the hours crawl as slowly as the sun in climbing the sky, even though the landscape slides past at its usual rapid pace. I swear it’s nearly a week before we finally pull into the Boston station even though we actually get in about a half hour ahead of schedule. Since we arrive so much earlier than I expected, I decide to stop by my place to drop off my luggage and freshen up a little. I’ve never understood how just sitting can make me feel so grungy, but I guess it’s just train grime.

 

From the tidy look of things, the boys were true to their word and never stayed here. Nothing is out of place that I can see: no dishes in the sink, no movies out of their cases or scattered around the VCR, not even a couch cushion tossed carelessly in the floor. My favorite midnight blue chenille throw is still draped invitingly over the back of my sofa where I left it, and I run my finger lovingly over it for a moment, very much looking forward to all the future naps I’m going to have with it wrapped around me while I’m wrapped around Connor or Murphy.

 

I honestly don’t know how they can prefer to stay at their place over mine. I have to shake my head at their stubbornness, but at the same time, I appreciate their concern for the safety of my furniture and the cleanliness of my apartment. I guess they’re just used to they’re mess.

 

I breathe in slowly for a moment, soaking in the harmonious familiarity of being home after a long trip. This is the longest I’ve been away from my apartment at one time since I moved to Boston after high school. I wasn’t exactly homesick while I was gone, not for my apartment at least, but now that I’m back and standing in the middle of it, I realize how much I like being somewhere familiar and normal. I’m not so much a creature of routine as I am one of habit. I don’t have to be at the same places, doing the same things at the same time, but I do like the first two of those three. I like the same activities and locations, just not necessarily on a schedule.

 

Conversely, I’m also very much looking forward to all the new things and new places I'm about to experience. Up to this point in my life, I’ve only ever been as far as New York City; even my summer camp was only a two hour car trip. I never thought of myself as a world traveler, didn’t really think of visiting far-off locales and whatnot, but after this trip I can see all sorts of possibilities in my very near future.

 

I made it through two months more or less on my own in a huge new city, and I didn’t get fired or horrendously embarrass myself (or Jen). Hell, I even seem to have lived up to everyone’s expectations and impressed a couple of people. And every time I get back from a trip, I’ll have Connor, Murphy, and Rocco there to greet me at home.

 

The word home rings through my thoughts with the clarity of an unexpected church bell, and I realize why I’m so excited to travel when I’ve never even considered it before. For the first time in my life, I have an actual home to come back to. Not just an apartment full of (okay, partially full of) my stuff: an actual home with family, people I look forward to seeing and can’t wait to spend time with, people I can actually count on when I need them.

 

Wow. I have a family. And a home. That’s tremendous.

 

My entire perspective shifts just a little bit as this new awareness settles into my brain. A genuine smile lifts the corners of my mouth as the stygian terrors of last night’s dream recede, sliding into the hidden corners of my mind where they aren’t nearly as alarming or distracting. Maybe, despite all these rotten dreams, things are going to turn out okay after all.

 

A timid knock on my front door shakes me from my silent reverie, shaking me from this train of thought. There’s no reason for anyone to be here; we were all supposed to meet at the diner. I glance through the peephole and find a disheveled Rocco in the hallway, his hands shoved in his coat pockets as he scuffs the toe of his boot along the floor. I fling open the door and throw myself at my friend.

 

“Rocco! Oh, my god, I missed you! How are you? What are you doing here?”

 

He’s as surprised as I am by my outburst, and he grins down at me, a little embarrassed at my sudden affection. He looks kind of rough, like he didn’t sleep very much or very well last night, and whatever sleep he did get was probably in the clothes he’s wearing right now. I can see the fading remnants of a black eye in the last yellow and green stages of healing, and he smells kind of stale, too, like cigarettes, old beer, and pizza. Must’ve been a late night.

 

“What are you doing here?” I ask, standing aside so he can come in. “Why aren’t Connor and Murphy with you? They said they were going to crash at your place last night. I thought we were going to meet at the diner.”

 

“That’s still the plan, as far as I know,” he mumbles, glancing around the room and not quite looking me in the eye. “They’re...uh...they were still asleep when I woke up, and it was gettin’ kinda crowded over there, so I figured I’d stop by and see if you were back yet and maybe hit you up to borrow your shower? Mine’s all clogged an’ shit from-”

 

“Don’t need or want to know,” I say, holding up a hand before he can tell me exactly why his shower is clogged. “Towels and washcloths are on a shelf in the bathroom; you should see them when you go in. Use whatever soap you want.” He gives me a tired half-smile as he hangs his coat by the door and heads down the hallway. I hear the bathroom door click shut, and the shower cuts on after another minute.

 

Well, what do I do now? I was all set to go, but now I get to cool my heels while I wait for my friend to clean up. I’m more than ready for breakfast, but there’s no food in my fridge to at least have a snack while I wait. I rummage in a cabinet and scrounge up a not-too-out-of-date box of graham crackers. I even manage to miraculously extract a nearly unbroken one, much to my delight. I stick the box back in the cabinet and wander back to my living room, munching away.

 

For lack of any better ideas, I plop down on the couch and flick on the TV, switching over to channel twenty-two to see if I can catch the remnants of the morning news show. Instead of seeing the typical overly-caffeinated, far too perky morning hosts, though, I find a replay of a breaking news story dated from last night. Sally McBride, one of the local reporters, stands outside of the Copley Plaza Hotel, and police car and ambulance lights flash dizzyingly behind her as EMTs load a stretcher into the back of a waiting ambulance.

 

Even as I note that the person on the stretcher is covered head to toe in a sheet, for one paradoxical second my mind wanders to my anniversary date with Connor back in November.

 

“We went right past there,” I murmur.

 

Morbid curiosity gets the better of me, and I turn up the volume in time to hear Sally say, “...where we have just been informed that the largest multiple murder in Boston’s history has just taken place. We have learned that there were nine victims, all deeply involved in a notoriously violent Russian crime syndicate right here in Boston.”

 

She continues speaking, but I mute the television, frowning at the screen. This is what Connor was talking about last year when he was so upset the night he told me about Mary Callahan getting mugged and attacked in the street. Nothing but murder and death and horrible violence on the news. I still can’t blame him for being so pissed that night, especially not after my pitiful attempt at heroics back in December and this lovely, uplifting story playing across my screen right now.

 

Welcome back to Boston.

 

Rocco emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam as the news is finishing up. He pads into the living room, clean now and dressed except for the ratty socks and the boots he’s carrying in his hands. He seems to feel a little better now, as he’s actually able to meet my eyes and offers a tired half-smile.

 

“You guys just let Beantown go to Hell while I was gone, huh?”

 

“What d’ya mean?” He unsuccessfully tries to shove his still-damp foot into his sock and struggles vainly for a moment before pulling it off and starting over.

 

I nod towards the television, indicating the Copley Plaza story that seems to be finishing up. “Pretty messed up stuff.”

 

“Yeah, saw somethin’ about that this morning,” he says, still wrestling with the stubborn sock. His sopping hair flops into his face, and he flips it back with a frustrated grunt. “They think it mighta been one guy that took ‘em all out.”

 

“Are you serious?” I ask incredulously. “One guy? Roc, why in the world would the police think that?”

 

“Huh?” he says, glancing up at me through a curtain of wet hair. “Why not one guy?”

 

“Roc, there were nine trained, armed, Russian mafia guys there. There's no way in hell one guy could do that with anything short of a machine gun, and they didn’t report anything about someone hearing something that loud. I mean I guess it _could_ have been one guy, but it doesn’t make any sense. That one guy would’ve had to kill them all in just a couple of seconds, or they would’ve pumped him full of bullets before he could kill half of them. Logically, there just wasn’t enough time for one guy to have done it. At the very least, it had to have been two guys, and they would either have to be really good or really lucky. Or both”

 

He stares at me for a long, silent moment, his expression strangely serious but otherwise unreadable behind his hair.

 

“Shit. I, uh...I never thought about it like that. Guess the police need to hire you on as a detective, huh?”

 

I smile at his weak joke, watching him finally pull his sock on and start on the other. His hair slips down again, and he curses, flicking the soaking strands behind his shoulders. This, of course, results in me getting sprayed from halfway across the room.

 

I wipe my face, sighing. “Seriously, man?”

 

“What?”

 

“Meet me in the bathroom when you finish putting your socks on,” I reply, standing and heading down the hall.

 

“Why?” He sounds thoroughly confused and more than a little suspicious and seems to plant himself a little further down in my armchair.

 

“Because otherwise I'm going to need to blow dry my own hair from all the water you keep tossing on me. Plus, you’re soaking my chair and your clothes. Just trust me and meet me in there when you’re done.”

 

Rocco steps reluctantly back into the bathroom a minute later, looking very much still suspicious. “What _is_ all this shit?”

 

“Leave-in conditioner, a hair dryer, and a hair brush. And I swear on my life I will never reveal to anyone what I do to you in here. Now sit on the edge of the tub and flip your hair over.”

 

Sighing in defeated, Rocco does as he’s told. Twenty minutes later, we’re walking down the sidewalk on our way to the diner, and I glance over at my friend. The sun is shining down, glinting through his hair as a cool breeze fluffs it away from his face. Even his beard looks neater instead of rough and caveman-like. With his long coat billowing out behind him as he walks next to me, his hair washed and blown out, and his dark shades reflecting the sunny sky, he looks pretty damned cool and kind of...majestic, even.

 

“You look good, Roc. You should let me do your hair more often.”

 

He snorts, laughing despite his obviously down mood. “Maybe next time I spend the night.” But his heart isn’t in the smile, and it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. I study him for a moment longer before speaking again.

 

“What’s eating at you, Roc? Rough night with Donna? Are the boys giving you shit again?”

 

He’s silent and seems likely to remain so on the subject, so I let it go. If he’s as upset as he seems, I shouldn’t push, regardless of my burning curiosity. I try to people-watch as we walk along, enjoying the sunshine and nice weather along with the majority of the rest of Boston, it seems.

 

The day has warmed up considering since I was up before the crack of dawn. After months of snow and slush and freezing rain, this is the first full week of decent weather we’ve had since November, and most of the kids of South Boston, along with their parents seem to be out in droves, and food vendors and souvenir vendors are taking full advantage of the crowd.

 

As Rocco and I dodge around a group of obnoxiously loud teenagers taking up most of the sidewalk, I realize a lot of kids must be off for Spring Break. Good news for Doc, I suppose; more college students mean more alcohol sales. The regulars will be pretty pissed, but that usually just serves as a source of amusement for me. I remember a pretty spectacular night last April where Connor and Murphy shut down an exceptionally obnoxious drunk frat boy and his “bros” without breaking a sweat, a fight that resulted in all six of the barely-post-adolescent idiots apologizing and buying a round for everyone in the bar.

 

And that lovely bit of nostalgia brings my thoughts full circle back to the other thing I need to talk to Rocco about.

 

“So, what happened at McGinty’s Wednesday night? I hear tell it was the stuff of legends.”

 

“I’m pretty sure the guys wanted to tell you all about that when they see you,” he deflects quickly. I see a streak of panic flicker across his face, and I know instinctively that I can crack him if can just find the right angle. Or if I can pester him for long enough.

 

“Were Connor and Murphy the only ones who did anything? I mean, seriously, why will no one even tell me what other people did that night? Was it that bad? All Duffy would tell me is that Connor and Murphy spent Thursday night down at the precinct to avoid the press because they turned themselves in. Come on, Rocco, this is driving me nuts. Can you please just tell me what happened?”

 

I turn my best pleading eyes on him and even toss in a quivering, partially stuck out lower lip. He grimaces, his eyebrows lowered, and I go for the kill shot.

 

“Please, Roc? I’m just so worried about them. They barely talked to me last night after I couldn’t get a hold of them for almost two days, and they didn’t tell me anything and wouldn’t even tell me why I shouldn’t come back last night. I just need to know something so I don’t go out of my mind.”

 

I, of course, conveniently leave out that I will see them in less than a half hour, but that’s beside the point.

 

“Okay, but whatever the guys do to me because I told you is your fault. Just wanna get that straight.”

 

“I will defend you and your honor with my life,” I say, grinning at him with relief and appreciation.  

 

“Yeah, sure, say that now,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. “We were hangin’ out at McGinty’s after everyone had gone for the night. Duffy and his brother were there, and I think one or two other guys. I was pretty trashed by that point, an’ I can’t honestly remember who all was there. Doc starts tellin’ us how the people holdin’ his lease are gonna make him shut down the bar, and-”

 

“What?” There’s no way I heard him right. “McGinty’s is closing?”

 

“It’s kinda up in the air. You want me to finish?”

 

“Yeah, I’m...I’m sorry, keep going. You just threw me for a minute.”

 

“Didn’t sit good with us, either. So all of a sudden these big guys come marching in, tellin’ everybody to get out, that the bar is closing. Connor and Murphy try talkin’ nice to ‘em, askin’ ‘em to have a drink with us, but they just wanted to be assholes, I guess, so they knock your boys’ drinks to the floor.”

 

Yeah, I know what happens next. I’ve been there for a couple of those nights.

 

Rocco nods at the expression on my face. “You got it in one. So, nobody’s happy at this point, so I just, y’know, I wanna lighten the mood a little. I make one little wise crack about one of their mothers, and the biggest guy in the middle knocks me out with one fuckin’ punch. Seriously, one punch.”

 

“Your eye?” I ask, peering at the faded bruising.

 

“Yeah.” His grin shines out from his beard, white and unexpected. “Didn’t think it would fade this fast. And, seriously, one punch. Pretty epic shit. Next thing I know, I’m wakin’ up on the floor, and Connor’s got the big guy on the bar and he’s settin’ his ass on fire-”

 

“He did WHAT?!”

 

Rocco breaks off his narration, cringing and flinching away like he’s afraid I’m going hit him. “See, this is one of the reasons I didn’t want to be the one to tell ya what happened. I mean, it’s not as bad as it sounds, hun. Really, I think ya had to be there to appreciate the whole thing.”

 

“Appreciate? How could…didn’t they...what would...why the hell would he set someone’s ass on fire?!”

 

“Dunno. Guess it seemed like the thing to do at the time?”

 

I shake my head, having no idea what to do with this information. “So how in the world did they manage to convince the cops they did that out of self-defense?”

 

“That’s not the part they went down to the station for. The party broke up after that,’ Connor and Murph sent those gorillas on their way, and we all went home. Only those assholes found out where Connor and Murphy lived, followed ‘em home I guess, and they busted their door down the next morning and started shit with ‘em in their own apartment.”

 

“I told them to get that damn door fixed; it’s been broken since…Since I first met them.” I only feel a tiny guilty twinge at being one of the people who broke it in the first place. “But Connor and Murphy are okay? How bad was the fight if the police were involved? Did they have to go to the hospital?”

 

“They went before they turned themselves in. Connor was pretty roughed up, took the worst of it, but he’s much better today. Bandages, cut on his head, a little limp. But seriously, hun, they’re both fine.”

 

“I don’t know how fine they’re gonna be after I get a hold of them,” I mutter, shaking my head in disgust. “I’m glad they decided not to stay at my place after all. Jesus, I leave you three alone for not even two months. What are you going to do when I start traveling on a regular basis?”

 

We continue walking in silence, which I don’t mind now. I need the quiet to help sort through everything Rocco has just told me. As the diner comes into view up ahead. Rocco stops and puts a hand on my arm, turning me back to face him. I can’t see his eyes, but the rest of his face is far more serious than I’ve seen him, more so than the night he broke down and told me about his issues with Donna and with his job. I open my mouth to ask him what’s wrong again, but he beats me to the punch.

 

“Look, Grace, I...the guys should be here soon, it’s almost ten. I...I’ve been tryin’ to figure some shit out, and I gotta run an errand. I’m gonna miss breakfast, I’m real sorry. Missed ya while you were gone.”

 

He pulls me into an abruptly tight hug, and I automatically put my arms around him. This is so unlike Rocco’s normal attitude. I feel like I should stop him from leaving, say something that will keep him from leaving, but I have no clue where to even start.

 

“Roc, are you...I know you probably can’t tell me anything, but...is everything okay with your, um…work?” I finish lamely.

 

He gazes down at me, but I can’t fully read his expression behind those mirrored shades. He leans forward and places a quick, scratchy kiss on my forehead, and I can feel the dismissal in his gesture.

 

“Catch ya later, hun. Go enjoy breakfast. There’s some guys I gotta go talk to.” And with that, he sweeps away down the sidewalk, his strides long and purposeful. He turns out of sight a couple of blocks ahead, and I’m left standing in shock, staring after him.

 

Did Rocco, _my_ Rocco, just sound a little...menacing?

 

I finally shake some feeling back into my feet and open the door to the diner, rattled and very worried about my friend. I’m immediately greeted by the comforting, familiar scent of salt, grease, and coffee, as well a wave of hello from the cook back in the kitchen. I return the wave a little absentmindedly, glancing at the clock and wondering when Connor and Murphy are planning on arriving. We were supposed to meet here about now, so I don’t figure on having to wait too long, which is good.

 

I can’t wait to hear about the thought process that leads someone to tie a man down and set his ass on fire. And I’d really like something to distract me from worrying about Rocco.

 

One of the regular waitresses, Becky, stops by with a glass of water and to ask if I want my usual, and I frown at the menu as all my worry and anxiety from the last couple of days comes flooding in from where I shoved it in the back of my mind. Connor and Murphy’s evasiveness, Rocco’s additional evasiveness, that dream I just can’t seem to remember all crowd into my head, making coherent communication suddenly difficult. I can’t even remember what my usual is, despite the fact that I’ve gotten it probably once a week for at least a year.

 

“I...don’t know.”

 

She smiles sympathetically and says, “Lemme know when you’re ready, hun. Good to see ya again. And you tell those boys we said to keep up the good work.”

 

I try to return her smile, but I’m sure I fail miserably. I’m so confused by her parting words that I don’t even think to ask her what she meant. I mean, maybe they heard what happened at the bar, but why in the world would they congratulate my idiots for something like that?

 

I shrug it off and go back to studying the menu, hoping the guys get here soon. I’m starting to get antsy again. I’m getting pretty hungry, too, as I’ve been up since 4:00 this morning and the only thing I’ve eaten was a granola bar on the train around 6:30, but I don’t want to order without them for some reason. Plus, I still can’t remember what I always get.

 

I guess I could just ask, but that makes way too much sense.

 

Over an hour later, I’m teetering on a very fine line between frantic and furious. Connor and Murphy have neither shown up nor left a message. Maybe - _maybe_ \- they got the time of my train’s arrival wrong; I doubt it, but I’d like to think they wouldn’t purposefully snub me.

 

I finally give in and ask Becky if I can use the phone in the back. I guess she can see the genuine distress on my face because she leads me to the phone and tells me not to worry about any charges. I quickly dial Rocco’s number, but all I get is a busy signal. I wait a couple of minutes, try again, and again it’s still busy. I count to three hundred silently, visualizing each number clearly in my head before going to the next. I dial Rocco’s number one last time, but it’s still busy. Maybe Donna’s on the phone or something. I hang up and returning to my booth, completely nonplussed.

 

At the hour-and-a-half mark, my temper finally snaps. I stand, drop a tip for Becky on the table next to my empty water glass, and on my way out I apologize for acting so strangely, oblivious to all the concerned looks being tossed in my direction. I head down the sidewalk, not really seeing anything but red as I make my way home.

 

I storm through my apartment door, my thoughts a tangled black mess of anger and worry, all relief from my homecoming long gone. I glance at my answering machine as I hang up my coat, but there are no messages. My anger overpowers my nerves, and I snatch up the phone and stabbing the buttons with much more force than necessary, furiously dialing Rocco’s number again.

 

“What?!?” A wailing, wasted voice shrieks halfway through the second ring. I’m so jolted by the unexpected screech I nearly drop the receiver, and my angry diatribe dies on my tongue. Now I have no idea what to say. I can hear someone else bawling incoherently in the background, and I wonder if this is even the right apartment.

 

“Uh...sorry, I may have dialed the wrong number. Who is this?”

 

“I live here, bitch, who the fuck are you?!” the voice screeches, and I finally make the connection.

 

“Shit, Donna, I’m sorry. This is Grace. Are any of the boys there? I saw Rocco earlier, and he said Connor and Murphy-”

 

My call waiting beeps on the other line, but before I can react, Donna is squawking at me, and I have to pull the receiver away from my head to preserve my eardrum.

 

“Don’t you talk to me about those fuckin’ pricks!” she howls into the phone. “Assholes, all three of ‘em, trashin’ my place and screaming at me, stickin’ a gun in my face, and they killed my cat and…” she tails off into incoherent sobbing and rambling, and I finally gently place the receiver back on the cradle, barely feeling the phone in my nerveless fingers.

 

I stare at my phone, dumbstruck, at a complete loss as to what I should do now.

 

What the hell is going on?


	6. Chapter 6

Several minutes of attempting to calm and organize my snarled thoughts pass before I remember the call waiting beep. When I use the call return feature on the phone, though, the number the recorded voice recites to me is completely unfamiliar. I press the button to call the number back and let it ring several times before hanging up in defeat.

It might have been the boys, maybe calling from a payphone, but have no way of knowing since no one answered. I have no idea where they even are right now. I know the best way to get in touch with them is to stay put and wait for them to call me back, but my temper is flaring over my confusion and worry again. There is no way in hell I’m going to sit around my apartment all day in the hopes those assholes will call and explain this mess.

I finally settle on grocery shopping as an acceptable distraction, as my fridge is completely bare of anything resembling real food. I jot down a quick list of necessities and grab my purse, thoroughly distracted and not at all realizing my bag is both open and upside down. I shut and lock my door, but my purse snags on the doorknob, jerking and spilling its entire contents all over the hallway. I glare daggers at the mess for a long moment, wondering if steam is actually coming from my nose like the bulls in the cartoons I watched when I was a kid.

The ridiculous mental image I get from that thought calms me enough to shake off my anger for a moment. I crouch down with a resigned exhalation and begin stuffing the multitude of items back in my back. I have so much junk in my bag, it’s not even funny, and I don’t understand how it gets so cluttered in there since I keep my apartment and work desk so spartanly bare. I guess all the mess just ends up in my purse instead of everywhere else.

As I’m picking up an empty tube of chapstick I’ve been meaning to toss for about a month, I hear the phone ring in my apartment. I shove everything haphazardly back in my purse and look around for my keys, which, predictably, are nowhere to be seen. I look all over the floor, dig quickly through the jumbled detritus in my purse, and pat down all my pockets, and still I can’t find them. The phone is on its fifth ring when I glance up at the door and see my keys hanging cheerfully from the lock.

_ Oh, for the love of God _ .

I turn them quickly, shaking my head in exasperation, and leap inside as the phone rings for the seventh time. My hand is on the receiver as the answering machine clicks over, and I hear muffled voices and what sounds like Rocco yelling something in the background.

I snatch up the phone in time to hear Connor say, “She ain’t dere,” just before he hangs up.

“Goddammit, I’m here!” I yell at the dial tone. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

Beyond pissed, I let out a scream of sheer frustration and jerk the entire phone and answering machine system out of the wall, chucking it across the room before I come to my senses. They crash into the opposite wall and drop into a broken, useless heap on the floor. As the frenzied haze of momentary insanity begins to dissipate, I realize just how crazy and ridiculous that scene must have actually looked. I am so glad no one was here to see me do that.

I stand there, staring at the ruined machine, my chest heaving, my face burning with shame and vexation, listening to my pounding heart slowly calm. I shouldn’t have done that; I know it was stupid, and now I’m going to have to add a new phone and answering machine to my grocery list. I glance at the wall and am relieved to see no damage there.

“Enjoy your little temper tantrum, diaper baby?” I mutter, crossing the room to gather up the broken phone. “Good job, Grace. Real good job.”

I dump the cracked pieces into the garbage can in the kitchen, making a pit stop by the sink to splash some water on my face in a feeble attempt to relax before venturing out in public. I’d like to be able to make it to the store and back without being mistaken for an asylum escapee.

I would probably be more successful in that venture if I could stop muttering angrily to myself every few minutes.

The electronics store a couple of subway stops down is my first destination, and afterwards I feel foolish and more than a little ashamed to be carrying a phone and answering machine around with me in the grocery store. I know that no one in the store knows what I did, but the tantrum is still fresh in my mind, as is the confusion, worry, and anger from this baffling situation with Connor and Murphy, not to mention that scene with Rocco a little while ago.

I shop in a bit of a daze, my temper receding a little in the wake of a vast ocean of doubt, uncertainty, and insecurity. Thoughts and ideas are spinning so quickly through my head, I barely have time to register them, much less think them over.

Where was Rocco going? Why was he so serious and grim when he left? Who was he going to talk to that made him act like that? Where the hell are Connor and Murphy? Why won’t they tell me what happened with them? Why can I not catch up with them today? Why can’t I remember my dream even though I feel this horrible twist of foreboding in my stomach every time I think of it? And why the hell was Donna yammering on about guns and somebody killing her cat?

As distracted as I am, I don’t pay very close attention to what I’m grabbing from the shelves. I glance down at the shopping cart about twenty minutes in and realize I’ve grabbed far more than I could possibly carry home by myself. That’s what comes of being used to shopping for three people and having four extra hands to help tote everything home.

Breathing slowly in through my nose and out through my mouth, I force myself to calm down and focus on one task at a time. I retrace my steps through the small grocery store, replacing about half of my basket’s contents on the shelves. Once I’m down to a manageable amount, I head to the checkout line and load my food onto the counter.

As the clerk starts to scan my groceries, the headline of yesterday’s  _ Boston Herald _  catches my eye: “Saints of South Boston: Brothers’ case discovered to be self-defense.” I don’t know how long I stand there, gazing numbly at the newspaper with a growing ball of dread whirling frantically in the pit of my stomach before the annoyed cashier’s voice cuts sharply through my haze of shock.

“Is that all for you,  _ miss _ ?” From the sound of it, it’s not the first time he’s asked.

“Let me get this paper, too.” The clerk scans the newspaper, indifferently reciting my total, and I pay and leave quickly, making my way numbly down to the subway station. I force myself not to read the paper on the train, to wait until I’m home. Without any confirmation whatsoever, I just know that this article is about Connor and Murphy, and I have this feeling that I’m not going to handle what I read very well. I’d like to be somewhere comfortable and safe when I read the article, just in case.

Like if I decide to have another fit or something.

I put away my groceries like a good adult and force a glass of water down my rebelling throat and churning stomach before I finally allow myself to sit down at my kitchen table and spread the newspaper out in front of me.

The paper is dated for yesterday, Friday, March 19th. I start to read, and a cold wave of panic creeps through me, sending tendrils of fear rooting deeper and deeper into my limbs the further I get into the article.

_ “In what is surely to be one of the most legendary cases in Boston’s history, two brothers will be released from Police Custody after it was determined that the deaths of two men earlier this week were simply instances of self-defense. Connor and Murphy MacManus surrendered themselves to police yesterday.” _

My brain flickers out for a second, and I don’t process anything I’m reading again until I get to “... _ brutal deaths of Ivan Checkov and Vladimir had been discovered. They reported to the police unescorted and voluntarily _ .”

I read on, my paralyzed brain barely absorbing phrases like “ _ what they really are is a pair of remorseless killers _ ” and “ _ where deaths results as the actions of an individual acting in self defense _ .” I know somewhere deep in my mind where the rational part of me lives that I desperately need to hear what Connor and Murphy have been trying to tell me all day, that I need to hear their side of the story. But that part of me is far, far away right now, at the other end of a long tunnel that I can’t see the end of. A distressed wheezing noise fills my ears, and it takes me a second to realize that I can barely breathe, I’m so freaked out.

The unexpected knock on my front door jars me so badly I let out a ridiculously loud shriek, knocking the newspaper off the table and toppling over backwards, sending my drinking glass crashing loudly into the kitchen cabinets.

“Lass? Are ye alright?”

_ What the hell do _ they  _ have to sound worried about? _ I think wildly, clambering to my feet as I try desperately to calm my rapid heartbeat. My shoe slips on the newspaper, and I drop like a stone, landing on my ass with my hands planted on the floor. I scramble up again, panting like I’ve run a marathon, and I have the strangest sensation of being somehow detached from my body, like I’m that rational part of my mind watching everything from far away through my tunnel. I can’t even make myself take the few steps over to the door.

“Heard ye yell, girl, say somethin’! Are ye okay?”

I open my mouth, but my throat is constricted like I’m in the middle of a panic attack, and I can’t get any sound out.

“Murph, gimme t’key, somethin’s wrong.” There’s muffled cursing, then a key slides into the lock from the other side, and my front door is flung open. Connor and Murphy come barreling into my apartment, they’re heads turning wildly as they look around. Their arms are outstretched in front of them, gripping guns like they know exactly what to do with them. Their faces are half-covered by sunglasses, their expressions grim and a little frantic, and in that moment they are complete strangers to me.

In a dim memory that floats through my foggy brain, I remember Murphy telling me something about how he and Connor knowing how to handle a gun, but somehow that just doesn’t seem like the most important detail right now. I don’t know how I even thought of it except I can’t seem to think of anything that would actually helpful right now. If I thought I was panicking before, that’s nothing to how I feel now.

Unlike my brain, my feet suddenly remember how to react in a situation where someone charges into your space with a weapon. I find myself scrabbling backwards, my hand inexplicably slipping off when I grab at the counter, until I feel the wall at my back. Glancing around, I see my knife block a few feet away, and I lunge towards it, ducking away from the direction of the boys’ swinging weapons.

Again, rational me knows neither of them would ever hurt me. Irrational me, however, has the controls, and all I see are guns pointed at me in my own home.

Just as my fingers close around the handle of my chef’s knife, a gloved hand grips my wrist firmly. Without thinking, I react to what feels like nothing so much as an attack and swing back hard with my elbow, landing a hit square in the middle of someone’s solar plexus. My assailant staggers backwards with a gasp of pain, dropping to his knee on the floor next to me with a sharp curse.

“Grace! Calm down, girl, it’s us! Drop th’knife; we ain’t gonna hurt ye!”

I turn wild eyes to Connor, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I watching him hastily holster his weapon. He rips his sunglasses off so I can see his eyes and steps towards me slowly, his hands held up palms outward where I can see them.

I look down at my feet where Murphy is kneeling on the floor, grimacing and rubbing his chest. His shades have fallen off and he’s watching me intently, his eyes focused on my right hand. I finally notice that I managed to get a hold of my chef’s knife after all. Also, for some strange reason, my hand is streaked with red. Funny, I can’t feel either the knife in my palm or the blood on my skin.

_ Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth…in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm down and breathe. _

“Dose self-defense classes seem t’be workin’ out fer ye,” Connor offers, a tentative smile lifting a corner of his mouth. I nod, registering his words from miles away, as I stare blankly down at my bloodied hand. I still don’t feel a wound of any sort. Maybe I nicked Murphy? But there’s blood on the knife handle, bloody handprints on the counter, and blood on the floor next to where I fell.

There’s blood on Murphy’s knee where he’s kneeling, too. Where did the shards of glass littering the floor come from? My thoughts are whirling at top speed again, trying to force my brain to make sense of the situation, and all I manage to come up with is that I probably need to stop threatening Connor and Murphy with a kitchen knife.

I take a step towards the table, intending to lay the knife down, when I’m hit by a crashing wave of dizziness. There’s a rushing sound in my ears, and the kitchen goes blurry. All the remaining sensation drains from my frozen limbs, and I hope to God that I didn’t just drop the knife on Murphy. I mean, I’ve already somehow inadvertently injured him with broken glass, but I’m sure a chef’s knife to the thigh wouldn’t do him any good, and-

I’m being propelled swiftly across the floor, but I can’t feel my feet moving. I have a moment of severe disorientation where I think I might even be floating. Something pushes me gently downwards. The backs of my knees hit something soft, forcing me back and down into a sitting position. My head is pressed forward, and a faraway voice tells me, “Breathe, girl. Keep yer head down and breathe.”

_ Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth…in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm down and breathe. _

There’s a tugging sensation in my palm, and suddenly feeling in the form of stinging pain rushes down my arm and concentrates in my right hand.

“Son of a bitch! What the hell was that for?”

My head snaps towards Connor, who is still grasping my palm in one hand. In his other hand, he holds a thin sliver of crimson-stained glass towards me.

The rest of the room slides back into focus around us, the pain in my hand clearing my head a little by giving me something to fixate on. The rushing noise fades as the sounds of Boston filter back in. I keep my eyes focused on my hand, intently watching Connor clean the tiny wound and place a band-aid over it. It’s not even large enough to warrant gauze, but the tiny injury is the only thing keeping me anchored to this plane of consciousness right now.

The fingers of my other hand tingle and prickle as if I’ve been leaning on them and they’ve fallen asleep, and I shake them nervously, getting blood flowing back to them. After another minute or so, I notice the blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Since I’m shivering uncontrollably, I decide that whoever placed said blanket on me had the right idea. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this cold in my entire life.

Shuddering, I start to straighten up, only to have Connor’s hands on my shoulders slow my progress.

“Easy, dere, girl. Ye nearly went out from shock. Take it slow, or swear t’Christ I'm takin’ ye t’the hospital. Should take ye anyway, get yer hand looked at t’see if dere’s anymore glass.”

“Wouldn’t be your first trip this week,” I say through chattering teeth. “They've probably got a room reserved for the two of you by now. Why is it so freakin’ cold in here?”

“Shock,” Murphy answers me from the kitchen, echoing his brother. I hear tinkling sounds, and assume he’s taking care of the broken glass. Connor chafes my arms through the blanket, and my immediate response is to simply melt into his side. I’m still pissed, though, a surprisingly energizing emotion that helps bring my thoughts back into sharper focus.

I fight against the urge to throw myself at Connor with every bit of strength I have. Now is not the time for melting; now is the time to get some freaking answers. I continue sitting up, albeit slowly, until I’m upright once more. Then their words register.

“Can you blame me for going into shock?!” I turn a burning, incredulous glare on them both, twisting on the sofa so I can see them at the same time. “What the hell is the matter with you two, busting in here with your fucking guns drawn?! Did you not consider for a second that might freak me out just a little after what happened in December?”

“You’re right, lass, we didn’t think,” Murphy agrees, his expression strained as he dumps the pile of glass from the dustpan into the garbage can. To his credit, he does sound genuinely sorry before he turns to rinse his hands in the sink. “We heard ye shout, an’ then ye didn’t answer us. We’ve called ye prob’ly seven or eight times t’day, an’ ye never picked up. Den yer phone had a busy signal fer near two hours, an’ after th’last few days, we couldn’t take th’chance dat somethin’ had happened to ye.”

My jaw clamps shut before I can say something obnoxious in reply. They were worried about me, they thought I was in trouble. It’s been a much larger game of phone tag all day than I realized. Okay, okay...I can deal with that. I mean, yeah, they could have left me a fucking message, but…

_ Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth…in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm down and breathe. _

I close my eyes, feeling a small muscle in my eyelid begin to twitch repeatedly in agitation. A particularly nasty throb of pain lances through my head, and I press my fingertips into my throbbing temples. I think for a long moment about what I want to say next and exactly how I want to phrase it.

“I need you to...do you still have your guns on you?” I finally ask.

“Hung ‘em up wit’ our coats,” Connor answers slowly, as if he’s apprehensive of why I’m asking. I nod, taking that information in and turning it over in my mind. It sounds so normal, so everyday. Hung them up with our coats.

_ Where are your instruments of death, darlings? _

_Hung them up on the coat rack with our coats and scarves, dear._ _Now how about a tumbler of Jameson and some of that lovely dinner you prepared?_

Totally understandable and normal, right? Nothing to be upset or concerned about. Yeah.

So why does the world feel completely upside down?

I don’t say anything aloud, but Connor must read some of the questions running through my head from the expression on my face. Still watching me with unconcealed worry and a little frustration, Connor says, “We got inta...bit of a mess St. Patty's Day night dat spilled over t’th’next day. Some Russian fellas came in t’Doc’s, tryin’ t’close down t’place. One t’ing led t’anudder, an’ dere was a bit of a fight.”

I hold up a hand, my eyes still closed, stopping him before he can go further in his narration. I force myself to think back to the article I read and what Rocco told me, remembering as much of the details as I can.

“Okay, I get trying to defend your second home and Doc’s honor. But after this fight, for some reason you decide the best thing to do is to set a man’s ass on fire? How the hell do you even get someone to hold still for that? Did you knock him out first?”

There’s a moment of silence, and I’m pretty sure Connor and Murphy are having one of their unspoken conversations.

“So help me, if you even think about not telling me the entire truth,” I begin. I am thoroughly fed up with stalling and half-conversations. I desperately want to give them an ultimatum, an all or nothing to tell me the whole story right the fuck now, but my throat shivers violently, and my stomach feels distinctly uneasy. I clamp my lips together instead, swallowing hard and willing myself to stay silent and listen with every fiber of my being.

“I tied ‘im down.”

I blink, my eyes opening as I look slowly and uncomprehendingly up at Connor. I stare at him, feeling eerily calm as he impassively returns my gaze.

“You...tied him down?” My voice comes out a lot calmer and more controlled than I thought it would. I sound interested but nonchalant, as if we’re discussing what the weather will be like when we go out later.

“Tied ‘im t’th’bar an’ lit ‘im up,” Connor replies just as neutrally.

“Why in God’s name would you do that?” The nonchalance is definitely gone now, though. I know this is not the most important part of our conversation, but I’m stuck on this point. Seriously, what could possibly be justification for setting someone’s ass on fire?

Connor scratches the back of his neck, frowning and squinting at the floor before looking back at me with a genuinely perplexed expression on his face. “Don’t rightly know, lass. Seemed like th’ t’ing t’do at t’time.”

I can’t help the sudden eruption of delirious laughter that bursts from my mouth. I haven’t slept since night before last, I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday, and I don’t think I can physically handle much more of this conversation. My arms are shaking, my throat is shaking, my stomach is shaking, my whole damn body is shaking with exhaustion and anxiety and more than just the beginnings of hysteria. I mean, I’m sitting here laughing because my boyfriends set a man on fire and later killed him and his friend.

They killed them. Two men are dead. Because of something Connor and Murphy did. To defend themselves. From being killed by the same men.

Connor and Murphy were almost murdered while I was gone.

Oh, God.

My stomach roils violently, and I bolt from the couch to the bathroom. I just make it to the toilet, trembling legs be damned, as the lack of everything I’ve eaten today comes rushing out in a surge of bile. I gag, coughing and spitting into the bowl as gentle hands gather my hair up from my face.

I moan miserably and lean my throbbing head over to rest on the blessedly cool rim of the bathtub. I close my eyes, willing none of this to be reality with all my might.

“This is a nightmare. I’m asleep, and this is a fucking nightmare.”

  
Connor and Murphy wisely refrain from answering as one of them wipes down my face with a cold, wet washcloth while the other presses a cup of water into my hand.


	7. Chapter 7

The shower I take after my episode is one of the most glorious experiences of my life, with brushing my teeth afterwards right up there, as well. Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed in my warmest sweats and thickest socks, huddled in my warmest blanket in a corner of the sofa. I sip some orange juice from a plastic cup that Murphy handed me, figuring I need to at least attempt to get my blood sugar up so my hands will stop shaking so badly.

 

“How long’s it been since ye ate anythin’, lass?” Connor makes the mistake of asking. Instead of answering with the fountain of venom I long to spit at him, I gaze steadily right into his eyes, waiting for him to remember exactly why I ate neither breakfast nor lunch today. It takes him a few seconds, but I see when the realization flickers across his face. He sighs, lowering his head and nodding. His shoulders stay tense instead of slumping, and though the last thing I want to feel for either of the twins right now is sympathy, I’m starting to get an inkling that the last few days haven’t been a cake walk for them, either.

 

“Aye, breakfast. We were...dat’s part o’what we need t’talk t’ye about, but it’s nearer t’th’end of th’story. Can ye wait until th’end t’hear dat part, let us explain from th’beginnin’?”

 

I take a moment and drain the last of the juice, feeling a little energy creeping through me. Not only am I low on fuel, but I haven’t slept in almost forty hours, and I’ve been just a tad bit stressed. Before I can answer, Murphy sits down on the edge of the coffee table in front of me, silently offering to switch my empty juice cup for a full one. His eyes follow my gaze to where he’s just set a plate of buttered toast with grape jelly next to him.

 

“When ye finish yer juice like a good girl,” he answers before I can ask for it. I glare, but there’s no heat behind it. Besides, juice is easier right now. I hand him my empty cup and accept the full one, taking a long swallow and an even longer, steadying breath before finally answering Connor.

 

“I’m calmer now,” I say slowly, feeling the throbbing in my temples beginning to recede. “I can hear the whole story. Just...take it slow and be prepared to answer a lot of questions, please. I promise I’ll keep my temper in check as best I can.”

 

Murphy gently presses the blanket around my shoulders again, tucking the edges in under my crossed legs before settling back on the coffee table. Connor perches on the arm of the sofa on the end farthest from me, giving me space while staying close enough to help if I need him. The cut on my hand pulses sorely in time with my heartbeat, but otherwise I think I’m okay for now.

 

The boys start with their arrival at McGinty’s, taking me through the whole night and the next day, from the Russian men entering the bar to their waking up in the middle of the night in the jail cell. They don’t leave out any details, as far as I know, and they don’t mince their words, giving me the facts as straightforward as they can. I do my best to eat my toast without either choking or overreacting.

 

Although, really...what exactly is considered overreacting when you find out your boyfriends have been attacked and nearly murdered?

 

“Tell me more about the dream?” I ask quietly, placing my cup on the table. The coincidence of all three of us having some sort of odd, spiritually compelling dream on the same night hasn’t escaped me, but from the sounds of it I’m thinking their dream might’ve turned out somewhat differently than mine. I’m more than a little curious, but it’s tempered by the feeling of foreboding I get as the twins watch me with uncharacteristically dark and solemn eyes.

 

“T’tell th’truth, we’re not entirely sure t’was a dream in th’strictest meanin’ of th’word,” Connor admits, glancing at Murphy. “We both heard th’voice at th’same time, both felt th’force of it, th’...dunno th’word I’m lookin’ fer. Compulsion, maybe? Calling? We woke up wit’ th’water comin’ down, an’ we both just knew we had t’do somethin’ about all th’horrible t’ings goin’ on. We knew that we had to-”

 

“Destroy all that which is evil, so that which is good may flourish,” I interrupt, the words tumbling automatically from my lips before I can stop them. I still can’t remember most of my dream; I can only recall the feeling of paralyzing horror, but the words come to me with the force of a command. I raise troubled eyes to meet Murphy’s as he stares at me in astonishment.

 

“How d’ye...where did ye hear dat, love?” Murphy asks, his voice quiet and intense. When I don’t answer, he leans forward, gently laying his hands on my shoulders. “Grace, how do ye know those words?”

 

“I had a dream that night, too.”

 

Murphy’s penetrating eyes hold mine for a long, earnest moment. His lips work as if he’s hunting for the right words but can’t quite seem to land on them; I know exactly how he feels. He searches my face silently for another few seconds before shifting from the table to join me on the sofa. Wordlessly, he opens his arms to me, offering me the comfort I desperately need right now but can’t bring myself to ask for. I hesitate for the space of a heartbeat, and then I launch myself at him.

 

The second his arms are around me, I don’t care how pissed I was at Connor and Murphy or how evasive they’ve acted. I don’t care how fucked up the last few days have been, and I don’t care about dreams or voices or missions or Russians or anything else. All I care about right this second is that I haven’t seen my boys in almost two months and that I nearly lost both of them while I was gone.

 

My lips are on Murphy’s before his arms have finished closing around me. My eyes are streaming, and I know despite my efforts to clean up that I am still an outright mess from my earlier freak out.

 

Judging by his response, Murphy couldn’t care less what I look like right now.

 

Long before I feel I’ve properly expressed to Murphy just how much I missed him, Connor reaches down and pulls me up into his arms, his embrace crushing the breath from me.

 

“Missed ye more dan anyt’in’,” he murmurs as my arms circle his neck and pull his face to mine. “C’n ye not travel again fer aw-”

 

I interrupt him before he can finish his sentence, crushing his mouth to mine with a passion that takes us both by storm. I feel Murphy stand behind me, and as his fingers press almost painfully into my hips, I know this is about to get way too involved for the living room.

 

“Bedroom,” I gasp, pulling away from Connor long enough to say one more word. “Now.”

 

Then my mouth is on Connor’s again, and he lifts me from the floor, turning towards my room. I hear Murphy removing his shirt behind me as I wrap my legs around Connor’s waist. I lose myself in the kiss, pushing away awareness of anything but the soft feel of his mouth on mine, the silky stroke of his tongue, the hardness of his torso squeezed between my thighs.

 

Hot, eager fingers skim up my stomach, sliding clothes off hastily in all directions, and then we’re twined together on my bed, exactly where we're supposed to be, and I’m shaking for an entirely different reason. There’s desperation in everything we do in those next few minutes, a reckless sense of relief at their survival and apprehension of not knowing what’s coming next. Touches that were once gentle and comforting are now a little more painful, a little more frantic and incautious.

 

Connor holds me against him, my back flush to his front as we lay on our side, and Murphy hooks my leg over his hip, entering with one fluid stroke that presses me back against his brother. I tense, not quite ready for him, and Murphy pauses, strain etched across his face as he waits for me to adjust. Connor strokes my hip with calloused fingers, his lips dancing over my neck, and I can feel the taut muscles in my abdomen begin to slacken.

 

“Breathe easy, lass,” Connor murmurs, his mouth hot against my ear. Murphy draws back, and Connor takes the opportunity to slip his fingers between my thighs, pressing and stroking exactly right as his brother starts a slow, steady rhythm. “Close yer eyes, an’ just feel it. Ye gotta trust us.”

 

The words strike a chord in my memory, but I’m too absorbed in the moment to hang on to the thought. Two months of barely-handled frustration added to nights full of frantic nightmares and the realization that I nearly lost both of them feeds my fear that they are about to be ripped away from me. This fear of sudden abandonment revolves desperately in my mind until Connor and Murphy are finally able to drown out any coherent thoughts I have left in a sea of sensation.

 

We’re on the verge of slipping into sleep afterwards, momentarily sated, when there’s a hesitant knock on the front door.

 

“Guys? Figured you forgot I was down in the car...Can I come in? I mean, is it safe to come in? I don’t wanna interrupt anything….again.”

 

“You left Rocco in the car? Seriously?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having a bit of an inspiration dry spell. I know where the story is going and generally how I want it to get there, but I'm having trouble making it cooperate. Let me know if I should keep going. Thanks for reading.


	8. Chapter 8

“Can ye tell us about yer dream?” Connor asks. Sandwiches and soup are all I have the groceries and the energy for after our whirlwind therapy session, and all four of us are eating in the living room instead of the kitchen table. Connor and Murphy bookend me on the sofa, while Rocco plops down in my armchair. He starts to kick his boots up on the end of my table but stops mid-movement at my raised eyebrow and drops his feet to the floor, stuffing half his sandwich in his mouth to cover his chagrin.

I set my empty soup bowl on the coffee table, racking my brain for the details that dance just beyond my memory. Something is blocking the dream from the forefront of my mind, trying to hold back the images from me, but I struggle against the block. I need to remember something, anything besides the words I said to Connor and Murphy earlier.

“I can’t remember most of it. I just remember being really freaked out, and you three kept trying to tell me things, but I was distracted because...I know Murphy and Rocco both said you’re going to need me, that you’re going to need my help. And Connor, you said…” I trail off, straining to think.

It’s as if someone flips a switch in my brain, and suddenly I can remember bits of the dream, but they’re blurry and swift. Details rush through my mind, filmy and wavy like watching a movie on fast forward through a stream of water.

“What did I say t’ye, lass?” Connor prompts gently. As Rocco places his empty plate next to my bowl, I glance around at the four of us as I have another flash of remembrance.

“We were sitting like this. I mean, we were all in these spots. I know we usually sit like this, but...I was leaning against Murphy, you were rubbing my feet, and Roc was in the chair, and-”

I look at my friend, and for one horrible second, his face from the dream replaces the one

I’m seeing now, his skin streaming with gore and stained carnelian. I gulp as the contents of my stomach rise up, threatening to revolt again. But now the floodgate is open, and all at once I can see everything my brain was trying to keep from me.

“It’s not what you said, Connor,” I say slowly as the dread seeps in along with the recollection of the dream. My eyes flash up to Rocco’s. “It’s what you said.”

“Me?” Rocco asks. Surprise is etched into the tired lines of his face, and for the first time I wonder how much older my friend is than the rest of us. It’s as if he’s aged five or even ten years since I saw him this morning, and I wonder exactly what the errand was that he suddenly had to run.

“I wasn’t even there when the guys had their dream or calling or whatever this fucked up shit that’s going on is. How could anything I say matter?”

I hold his gaze, unable to look away from Rocco, still seeing flashes of the dream on his face, the grisly mess on his shirt and skin, the missing fingers. The hole over his heart.

_ It was a dream, it was just a dream, I just have to keep reminding myself it was all a dream _ , I think, my pulse throbbing heavily in my temples. My breathing speeds up unpleasantly as I glance at the bandages on Connor’s wrists, and all denial drops from my mind. Some of it already is true.

So, then...does all of it have to be true?

“Connor and Murphy said...what I told you before, about destroying evil, and then, Roc, you said that we can’t ever stop. You said we’re not all going to make it and that I have to be here for the ones who do because it’s the hardest stuff we’ve ever gone through and that I have to keep them going, that...I have to get them out of here, but...but you didn’t say who, and you didn’t answer me when I asked you. I think you meant them, but you didn’t say. And you were all...Rocco, there was...your chest, right over your heart…”

I can’t finish. I can’t think of it, I can’t. The images from my dream, the horrible wounds, the smell of the blood, the crimson streaks, everything flashing past, and that deep resonating voice.

_ Don’t forget _ , it said. Now that I’ve remembered everything in my wakefulness, there’s not a chance I ever could.

Everyone is silent for a long time, thinking through what I’ve told them. I avoid looking anyone in the face, knowing I can’t handle seeing what they’re think right now. After a moment, Rocco breaks the silence by gathering all the dishes up and taking them into the kitchen. I hear him turn the water on in the sink, and it’s such a mundane, domestic sound that is ludicrously out of place in the current atmosphere.

Connor reaches over, turning and pulling me so I’m pressed to his side and tucked under his arm. He kisses the top of my head, and I close my eyes, pushing my face into the fabric of his shirt and inhaling deeply. Whiskey, cigarettes, that wonderful MacManus smell, and something else. For a single moment of insanity, I think of the horrible coppery smell from the dream, but this isn’t blood. It’s something new and acrid, something else I know but can’t place.

A memory is called to the front of my mind, me as a teenager back at summer camp, hanging out on the riflery range with my then boyfriend. While that jackass never touched anything more deadly than a bb gun the entire summer (oh, the multitude of excuses he came up with), one of the other riflery instructors showed me how to load and fire one of the low-powered rifles they kept for the older campers. The crack of the rifle almost always startled me even through the ear plugs, but I always found the scent of the range sort of comforting. The open field, freshly mown grass, and that sulfurous, slightly metallic smell of the spent rounds.

Gunpowder. Connor smells like gunpowder.

“Can ye t’ink of anyt’in’ else ye c’n tell us, lass?” he murmurs into my hair, shaking me from my flashback.

“You were all hurt,” I say, taking one of his hands in mine. I examine the wrappings on his wrist, starting to feel that woozy, disorienting sensation of being outside my body again. I swallow hard, shoving the dizziness away, and focus all my attention on the feel of Connor’s skin on mine and the sound of the words I force from my mouth.

“I think some of it was bullet holes, but I don’t know that I’d necessarily recognize that kind of wound over another; they were small and mostly circular, I guess? There were a lot of bruises and scratches. At one point, Murphy’s thumb was...wrong somehow, I don’t think I can explain it. Like, pulled too far in the wrong direction or something. Connor, your neck was like someone had grabbed you hard, maybe even choked you. All of you were covered in blood, and Rocco…Two of his fingers on one hand were just gone. And his chest was-”

One of us is suddenly shaking so hard that I can’t even finish my sentence, and I don’t even realize it’s me until Connor pulls me into his lap, rocking and hushing me like a child as I sob into his neck. His fingers thread tenderly through my hair, pressing soothingly into my scalp as he leans his cheek against my forehead.

“We’ve got ye, lass; we’re right here, an’ we got ye. We’re fine, we’re all fine.”

I finally let my emotions rampage and run their course unrestrainedly. Two and a half days of sleepless worry and frustration and panic all pour out of my eyes, and I have never been more relieved to have people I can unleash the worst of my feelings around as I am now. After a minute, Murphy slides across the sofa, leaning his back comfortingly against mine without encroaching too much into Connor’s space.

Eventually, the tears slow to a trickle and finally stop. Sniffling, I raise my head from Connor’s chest, and Murphy moves back to his side of the couch after leaving a lingering kiss on my damp cheek.

I straighten up and try to offer Connor a small, watery smile. I feel like years of tension have been lifted from my shoulders even though we haven’t actually solved a single problem; hell, I still don’t even know the whole story yet. Connor reluctantly releases me to slide back to my seat on the couch. I feel like I should have some level of embarrassment about my reaction to the situation.

I mean, I had a dream; big freaking deal. Connor and Murphy were attacked in their own apartment and almost killed. Murphy had a gun to his head, and Connor jumped off a building. What right do I have to a break down?

I feel a gentle poke in my other side and turn to see Murphy holding out a box of tissues and offering me a hesitant half-smile. I try to return it, but judging from his reaction, I’m not terribly successful.

“So...what happens now?” I ask, scrubbing resignedly at my face with a tissue. Rocco apprehensively joins us again, having hidden in the kitchen during my outburst, and he’s clearly uncomfortable. I feel a wave of guilt wash over me as I wonder how much he actually heard. I should’ve kept my mouth shut about the dream, but...don’t they deserve some warning or...I don’t even know. It’s a dream, just a stupid dream. How can I even think of it as a warning when it’s just a damned dream?

“Gonna just sit fer a little while, if we can. Haven’t slept much the last few days.” Connor yawns, stretching back against the sofa and resting his arm across my shoulders. “Startin’ t’really feel th’knock t’me head dat Russian fucker gimme-”

“Wait.” Russian. He said Russian. They said Russian earlier when they were telling me about McGinty’s, the newspaper said something about Russian mafia. I’ve seen something about the Russian mafia somewhere else recently. Didn’t the news report say…

The things they’ve been telling me over the last few hours coupled with what I read and what Rocco told me suddenly click together in a puzzle that makes an infuriating amount of sense. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, completely blindsided, but at the same time I feel like an idiot for not putting the pieces together sooner.

“Connor, you said it was Russian guys that came to McGinty’s on Wednesday. The paper said the guys who attacked you that you killed were from the Russian mob. And the news report about the Copley Plaza Hotel said the same thing, that it was Russian mafia. And you two didn’t want me to come back last night, the night that the men were killed at the Copley. What are you  _ still _ not telling me?”

“Shit,” Murphy mutters under his breath, his shoulders sagging. “T’was hopin’ ye wouldn’t make dat connection fer a little longer. Got a bit distracted b’fore we could get dat far in our story, lass.”

“I understand that; I was there for the distraction.” My tone is even and as reasonable as I feel I can manage under the circumstances. I just wish my emotions were as well controlled at the moment. “This, however, merits someone besides me remembering the topic and bringing it up. The three of you have literally two minutes to tell me everything else or get your asses out my door. And I mean fucking now. Talk or get out.”

So they do. Connor and Murphy pick up their story from Friday morning at the police station through the Russian’s pager going off to Connor finding out the details of the mob meeting. They tell me about going to the IRA gun dealer (I’m going to have to remember to ask them how the hell they knew this guy or where to find him in the first place) to crawling through the air ducts to falling through the ceiling and taking out the nine men in the hotel room.

So, I was right about one thing today, at least.

When they get to Rocco’s entrance and the boys’ screwing with him, the three of them actually start to crack up, like we’re telling drunken stories down at McGinty’s or something. I stare uncomprehendingly at them as they take digs at each other, acting like the whole situation is some stupid action comedy we’re watching on television.

In the middle of Murphy’s attempt to recreate what was supposedly a wildly entertaining exposition from Rocco, I suddenly realize I can’t stand being in the same room as the three of them; I can’t stand the sight or the sound of them, and I need to leave before I say or do something I will definitely regret.

How can they laugh at this? There is nothing, and I mean literally  _ nothing _ I find even remotely amusing about any part of this shit storm.

I rise to my feet without a word, grinding my teeth together to keep from speaking. Ignoring their startled exclamations at my sudden exit, I leave them in the living room and firmly shut and lock my bedroom door behind me.

This is sheer and complete insanity. This is my life now, and it makes no sense whatsoever. And the three people who matter most to me think this whole fucked up situation is funny.

Real fucking funny, guys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE shout out to bleedingrose0688 for unclogging my writer's block. Seriously, best commentary ever. Everyone, thanks for making it this far. Let me know if you want me to keep going.


	9. Chapter 9

“Grace, love, we know...we know it’s a lot t’take in, an’ we know yer pissed. But, well, dere’s somewhere we hafta be, an’ we didn’t want t’leave ye wit’out tellin’ ye. Will ye let us in fer a minute?”

 

I glance up at the door from where I’m perched on my windowsill. I seriously consider ignoring them, but I shake my head at my petty, childish attitude and stand, stretching my sore tailbone. I’ve spent nearly an hour crammed onto the narrow ledge, my knees tucked under my chin and my back pressed to the chilly glass, resolutely refusing to think about anything to do with the idiots in my living room. I know that I’ll have to talk to them eventually, but damn it, I just don’t want to right now. I’m tired.

 

I cross the room, unlocking the door and walking away without bothering to open it. I’m sure they’ll find their way in. I drop down on the edge of my bed, slouching forward to cradle my aching head in my hands, wondering why the universe chooses to do the things that it does.

 

I hear the door open slowly, but I don’t look up. I still don’t actually want to see any of them. This whole mess is still too new, too much to take in. The bed sinks down on either side of me, but both twins refrain from actual physical contact. Definitely a good idea.

 

“We’re not done talking,” I say into my hands. The words are muffled, but I know they understand me.

 

“Aye, we know. Roc’s got summat t’tell ye as well, if we’re goin’ fer full disclosure, but we t’ought it might be wise t’give ye some time t’think over what we’ve said so far. We’ve gotta be somewhere in an hour or so, an’ we wanted t’see if ye needed anyt’in’ b’fore we left,” Murphy offers cautiously. Both twins know my temper, and Murphy seems to think handling me like a live bomb is the best approach. I don’t honestly blame him. My head is so screwed up right now that actually exploding seems somewhere in the realm of possibility.

 

I glance up at him from my hands, my eyes sore and swollen from crying. “So, no McGinty’s tonight, huh? Regular date nights are pretty much tossed to the wayside at this point, I guess.”

 

“Summat we gotta take care of,” Connor says softly, though there’s no apology in his voice. I know then that something has irrevocably shifted with the three of us. While I don’t feel any less important to the two of them, there is definitely something else that is going to come first in their lives from now on, and I have no idea how far the effects of this displacement will reach. I let out a shaky breath, searching for a response that can adequately explain what I’m thinking.

 

“Ye want us to drop ye at th’bar on our way?” Murphy offers suddenly. Connor shoots him a sharp look, which Murphy ignores, but I don’t blame Connor for his reaction. I’m not sure what Murphy is thinking, except that maybe he doesn’t want me to be alone right now.

 

“I’m not in much shape to be social right now,” I say, rubbing my face with both hands, soundly exhausted by the last few days’ events. “Do I want to know where it is you have to go?”

 

Silence, then both of them shake their heads simultaneously. I nod, understanding immediately that this will be our new reality. But they’d damned sure better tell me when they get back.

 

“And we’re all absolutely sure that we’re awake and this isn’t some sort of screwed up group nightmare? I’m really not hallucinating? Because I will totally and completely accept that I am on drugs right now.”

 

Connor’s mouth twitches at the corner, and Murphy lets out a quiet laugh, but they have the sense to remain relatively sober.

 

“If ye would, lass, could ye stay in t’night an’ lock yer doors? Maybe check th’window locks on yer fire escape exit?” The genuine concern in Connor’s voice shakes me from my fog of misery, and I sit up straighter, peering inquisitively at him.

 

“Do I need to be worried? Is there something you guys haven’t told me that I need to know right now?”

 

“No,” Connor replies decisively, “but we ain’t takin’ any chances wit’ yer safety, an’ dis is one t’ing ye don't get t’argue wit’ us about.”

 

“Speakin’ of,” Murphy cuts in, “what time are ye goin’ t’work t’morra? One or bot’ of us are gonna escort ye dere an’ back home from now on, no matter how good yer gettin’ at takin’ care o’yerself.”

 

“I don’t work on Sundays anymore, remember?” I’m utterly exhausted now, and I wonder if I even have the strength to make it to the front door to lock it behind them. “And Jen took me off the schedule for the rest of the week; I was going to surprise you when you took me to McGinty’s tonight. She said I hadn’t taken a vacation since I started at the company and to think of it as a signing bonus for my promotion. Besides, I need some time to get my clothes ready for my new managerial/directorial status.”

 

They stare at me, utterly confused by my last statement.

 

“Like...get ‘em pressed or somethin’?” Murphy asks, glancing at Connor with a mystified expression. Connor shrugs, looking equally baffled, and they both turn to me for explanation.

 

“I have to go buy some business suits and similar outfits this week. I’m expected to dress a lot fancier from now on. No more jeans at work for me,” I clarify. The statement is so ordinary and everyday that my thoughts stumble briefly before returning to the current state of affairs.

 

They nod in understanding and rise from the bed at the same time. They’ve already got their coats on to leave, and Murphy offers me his hand, pulling me to my feet. He hugs me tightly against his chest, and I wonder if it’s my imagination that I can feel his gun holstered under his coat.  

 

As I pull away, something soft and black drops out of his coat pocket and falls to the floor at my feet. Without thinking, I stoop to pick it up and hold it out to him before I realize what it is.

 

“A ski mask?”

 

Murphy doesn’t answer, knowing I don’t need him to. He watches the silent parade of emotions across my face, his own expression as stoic and unreadable as the mask I just handed him. I open my mouth to ask why they would need to cover their faces when I realize just how stupid that question is and press my lips closed again. I know exactly why they need to stay hidden. I glance at Connor’s identically impassive demeanor, my gut twisting into yet another knot of apprehension.

 

“When are you coming back?”

 

They share a silent, grave look before turning back at me. Connor is the one who finally speaks.

 

“We don’t know exactly. Are y‘sure ye want us to?”

 

From the loaded pause that follows Connor’s words, I get the feeling this is the question neither of them wanted to ask me. I don’t know how Connor drew the short straw, but looking into his earnest, painfully blue eyes, I remember his words from my dream.

 

_Dis was bound t’happen whether you were here or not. I was protectin’ me family. I’ve done th’same fer you an’ Roc an’ Ma, an’ I’ll do it again. It’s what I do._

 

“Yes,” I say firmly. I put my hands on the backs of their necks, pulling them both to me until our foreheads are touching. Both of them raise an arm to circle around my back, and my breath catches a moment at the sudden sting of pain in my chest. The sounds of the television in the next room, of Rocco laughing, of the Boston nightlife filter out until it’s just the three of us, linked together, our heartbeats pounding in my ears in perfect synchronization.

 

“Always come back to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a nice backlog of chapters now, so the sooner you tell me you like wha tI'm doing, the sooner the next bit goes up. Cheers, and thanks for reading.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s a good thing I don’t have to go to work the next day because the three of them don’t get back to my place until well after two a.m. I spend most of the night alternating between staring blindly at the television screen while avoiding all news stations and chewing on my nails until they’re ragged, ruined stumps.

 

I want to know what they’re doing, want to know if they’re okay, whether this is the night they’ll return to me blood-stained and full of holes. _“Not fer a few days yet,”_ Murphy told me in the dream. That doesn’t stop me from having my own private freak-out in the middle of my living room floor.

 

I eventually resort to pacing the apartment restlessly, listing all the things that can’t be wrong with the three of them, that couldn’t possibly happen to them while they’re out to keep myself from thinking about what could actually be happening. At some point, I come to my senses and get out my sorry excuse for a first aid kit, digging through the dusty, woefully inadequate contents.

 

“Gonna have to stock up,” I murmur, holding up the nearly depleted roll of gauze. The rest of the kit isn’t much better, with an old, dried out bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a few Bugs Bunny band-aids littering the otherwise empty kit. I drop the cotton back in the box and return to my pacing. Connor asked me not to go out while they were gone, so there’s not much I can do to help my lack of medical supplies at the moment. I probably won’t need them tonight, anyway.

 

I mean, if they’re smart, they won’t get injured enough to warrant needing any sort of medical attention.

 

Because that’s worked out well so far.

 

Nearly three hours later, I hear a key slide into the lock, and the second I lay eyes on their uninjured selves, breathing suddenly becomes so much easier. Once I get Rocco settled on the futon in my spare room, I head back to my room and find Connor already passed out, his back pressed against the wall, stripped down to his boxers. From the sounds of running water, I cleverly deduce that Murphy is taking a shower and will join us shortly.  

 

I undress quietly, pulling on a tank top and a pair of stretchy cotton shorts, and join Connor on the bed. In the soft light of my bedside lamp, I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, allowing the sound of the shower and Connor’s light snoring to soothe some of the tension from my body.

 

I missed this while I was gone, missed having them with me, knowing I am absolutely and utterly not alone. I missed knowing I can reach over at any point in the night and feel the warmth of someone next to me, a solid reassurance that I have a place in the universe, and it is very much with someone else. I missed Connor sleeping like a freaking rock and Murphy waking up every time I warm my freezing feet against his legs.

 

Seriously, my feet were ice blocks the entire time I was in New York.

 

I trace a finger lightly over the lines of the saint on Connor’s neck, a habit I’ve gotten into whenever he falls asleep before I do, and he grumbles softly at my touch, shifting towards me in his sleep. His left shoulder rolls out of the shadows as he unconsciously reaches for me, and my eyes widen at the ugly, dark blotches that discolor his skin.

 

My fingers hover apprehensively over the bruises, not wanting to cause him any further pain or discomfort. Dark blue and purple spreads from the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, over and back almost to his shoulder blade and all the way across the top of his deltoid.

 

“He got dat breakin’ free from th’toilet,” Murphy says softly from the doorway. I turn back to look at him, my eyes starting to sting once more with tears. He’s got a towel slung low on his hips out of respect for Rocco, I suppose. When it’s just me and the twins, he typically doesn’t bother with anything after a shower.

 

“Rammed the tank until he loosened the pipes an’ cracked th’tank an’ base enough t’pull it outta th’floor.”

 

I nod, clearing my throat and blinking my eyes rapidly. I’ve cried enough today, and no one needs my tears right now. The boys don’t need my weakness; they need better than that, and if they’re settling for me, then I’m just going to have to rise to the occasion.

 

I turn so that I’m facing Murphy, and Connor instinctively curls his arm around the front of my shoulders, pulling me snugly against his chest. I look down at the bandaged wrist resting firmly against my collarbone before turning my eyes back to Murphy. I open my arms to him and offer him the first genuine smile I’ve been able to muster in what feels like years.

 

“Come to bed?”

 

So, with my nose buried in Murphy’s damp hair, his face pressed into the hollow at the base of my throat, and Connor’s snores tickling the back of my neck, the tension steadily drains from me until exhaustion creeps in to take its place. Somehow, despite the tornado of fear and doubt tearing through my brain, exhaustion wins out and sleep finally claims me deeply and soundly.

...

 

I wake with a start and a gasp several hours later. My bed is empty of MacManuses, but there are sounds of movement around my apartment. The shower is running and the television is on in the living room, so at least one person is still here.

 

Most of the muscles in my body protest vehemently as I sit up, and the crack that reverberates through my neck is nothing short of nauseating. Despite my lack of physical activity the last few days, I feel sore like I’ve been beaten with something heavy and unpleasant. I wince at the snapping noises that emanate from my back as I stretch and try to rub the crick from my neck. I guess this is what three days of severe tension does to me.

 

I feel old and worn out. I’m not sure I can muster the energy to face today. Or tomorrow. Et cetera. Being awake seems like way too much effort. But regardless of how invitingly my blanket is calling to me right now, being alone in my bedroom after two months of solitary confinement in my hotel is an even worse prospect.

 

At least I’ll have company if I leave the room.

 

I reluctantly slip into something closer to decent than my make-shift pajamas and shuffle from my room, yawning and grimacing at the bright sunlight. Rocco waves a hello from the couch as he clicks through television channels. I notice that he’s also steering clear of the news stations, and I wonder if his avoidance is as deliberate and for the same reasons as mine was last night.

 

“Murph went out for some smokes, and Con’s in the shower,” he says, glancing back at me over his shoulder. I must look as bad as I feel because he can’t quite hide his cringe at my appearance. “You doin’ okay, hun? Ya look kinda rough.”

 

“Slept wrong,” I mumble, barely coherent. “Stiff, like I’ve been in a fight or something. Might get a shower. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge if you get hungry before Murphy comes back.”

 

A hot shower is definitely the first order of business; Connor is just going to have to share. I stumble over to the bathroom and open the door. The shower is still running, and the room is full of steam. I can just make out Connor through the clear shower curtain. His hands are planted on the wall under the showerhead, his head bowed under the scalding spray, and he doesn’t react to my entrance.

 

Even through the blur of the curtain, I can see his tension and exhaustion in his stance. As stressful as the last few days have been for me, I know they’ve been that much harder on him. I shudder at the image I have of him in my mind, chained to the toilet in the loft, screaming as Murphy is shoved out the door. For all he knew, that was the last time he would ever see his brother, and I can’t even begin to imagine how much that must have damaged him.   

 

I step towards the shower, but my toe hits something soft, and I glance down to see discarded bandages littering the floor and strewn around the counter and sink like he was so pissed off when he removed them that he couldn’t even ring the trash can.

 

I glance down at my palm, at the tiny cartoon band-aid covering an even tinier cut. My eyes flick between it and Connor’s discarded gauze. I peel off my pathetic little bandage and drop it into the trash can, my gaze still fixed on the faint traces of blood staining the gauze. I feel like such a juvenile in this moment, so severely ignorant and young when I think about what Connor and Murphy have been through in the last few days. At least, the little I know of it so far.

 

Then I have a jarring flash, a memory I tend to recall mostly in nightmares, of a face leering over me, alternating between a sneering man with rotten teeth and a slavering wolf’s head with a mouthful of fangs. I can’t stop the shudder that runs down my spine any more than I can keep my fingers from brushing my throat to make sure no one else’s hand is there.

 

_Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth…in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm down and breathe._

 

The boys need me. If I take nothing else from my nightmares, I have to remember that they need me, and they need me solid and steady, not the quivering mess I tend to slide into whenever I have the flashbacks.

 

I can be strong.

 

I watch Connor through the curtain for another few seconds, but he never moves. After a silent, internal debate, I strip and step into the tub behind him. Though I haven’t made any noise, he must have sensed me come in because he doesn’t flinch when my hands smooth over the rigid muscles of his back.

 

His skin still holds its usual light tan, something I’ve never figured out in the two years plus I’ve known him. Even after being covered nearly head to toe for an entire Boston winter, this man looks like he just spent the afternoon on a California beach, and his skin almost glows under my pale fingers.

 

Well, apart for the giant bruise on his shoulder.

 

He straightens gradually, stiffly, taking several moments to finally turn and face me. Lines of pain crease between his eyes, eyes that I’m used to seeing twinkling with mischief or mirth, usually at my expense, but are now dark and haunted by the events of the last few days. This is the first time I’ve seen him show he’s still hurting from his multi-story fall.

 

“You probably shouldn’t even be able to walk,” I murmur, touching his face with my fingertips. “You do realize you’re damned lucky you didn’t shatter any bones in your legs, yeah?”

 

He doesn’t answer, his face somber as he looks me over. The spray from the shower hits his back, sending out a fine mist that clouds around us, giving him a kind of hazy, white outline that catches the sunlight from the tiny window.

 

His face is haggard, looking years older, and there are a few more lines besides those between his eyebrows. I realize in that moment that he is every inch the older twin. His propensity for always making a plan, making sure everything works out and everyone is taken care of should have made it obvious to me long ago. This man ripped a toilet from the floor and jumped off a six story building to save his brother.

 

He impassively watches the thoughts flicker across my face, waiting for me to say something.

 

“Can I see them?” I ask tentatively, holding my hands out. Instead of answering aloud, Connor offers me his wrists, placing them palm-up in my hands. The skin around his wounds is raw, rubbed red and sore, but it’s the cuts that look truly painfully. They’re jagged and deep, slicing into his wrists in irregular lines from his thrashing and straining in the handcuffs. Somehow, though, the torn flesh already show signs of healing rapidly.

 

“I have no idea how you didn’t need stitches,” I say. I look up and find his gaze locked on our joined hand. He traces a finger, feather light, next to my own tiny wound, still not responding to my words.

 

“You bled on me in my dream. I looked down, and your wrists were covering both of us in your blood. I asked you how you got hurt and you told me-”

 

My throat closes for a second, and I swallow hard, trying to recover my voice. Connor takes a step closer, his hands still resting in mine, and peers down at me. His presence somehow crowds out the worst parts of the dream from my mind, helping to clear my thoughts when he normally overwhelms them.

 

“Ye still haven’t told me what I said t’ye, lass. Was it dat bad?”

 

I shake my head and clear my throat, answering him with as much certainty as I can muster. “It wasn’t bad, I’m just having a period of adjustment, that’s all. I keep thinking if I’d been here, maybe none of this would’ve happened. Maybe the fight wouldn’t have been as bad, or I could’ve-”

 

“Don’t fuss yerself, girl, ye didn’t do a thing wrong,” Connor says, his gaze settling calmly on me. “Dis was bound t’happen whether you were here or not. I was protectin’ me family. I’ve done th’same fer you an’ Roc an’ Ma, an’ I’ll do it again. It’s what I do.”

 

My eyes widen as his words echo through my mind. The dream again. _Again_. How does this keep happening? My fingers begin to tremble against his palms, and I clamp down on my rampaging emotions before they get the best of me again. I have more control than this. I can be strong for him.

 

He continues to watch me, and though his expression is still, there are so many emotions storming through his eyes that I can’t even come close to guessing what he’s thinking. I am frozen by his gaze; I feel like he’s staring into the deepest parts of me, seeing all the doubt and fear I’m trying to keep hidden inside. After everything that’s happened in the last few days, I would readily accept that he is actually able to do just that.

 

“I love ye, Grace. I love me brudder. I did what I had t’do t’keep him safe. If I was willin’ to go dat far a few months ago, mighta been able t’keep ye safe, as well.” He reaches a thumb up to swipe regretfully across the faint scar left on my cheek by my attacker’s ring.

 

“Shoulda killed dose fuckers dat hurt ye, but I didn’t. Not just fer what dey did t’you an’ Mary, but fer all th’people they hurt an’ robbed. Shoulda gone after ‘em th’moment I knew what they’d done t’Mary, shoulda put more inta findin’ ‘em. If I ever see ‘em again, they’re dead men. Ye understand, aye?”

 

I nod. I get what he means, both what he’s said aloud and what he’s left unspoken. To Connor, it doesn’t matter that it was partially my stupidity and stubbornness that got me into trouble in the first place. It doesn’t matter whether or not I agree with what he and Murphy are doing. Those men hurt people, and they did it knowingly and willingly. That is enough to put them on the list.

 

Connor and Murphy are becoming people I don’t completely recognize, people who shake my understanding of the world to its very core. What they’re doing is illegal, wildly so, but it isn’t wrong. In an ideal world there wouldn’t be a distinction between the two, but in an ideal world we wouldn’t need men like Connor and Murphy to do what they’re doing in the first place.

 

So, because the world doesn’t make sense, we need someone who can take that burden on themselves to do what’s right to defend people who need protection _before_ they get hurt, proactively ridding the world of evil before it can touch the innocent.

 

This is who Connor has become, who Murphy has become, maybe even who they always have been. I can’t change this part of them any more than I can change the ebb and flow of the tides. It doesn’t matter how upset or confused or torn I am by what they are doing; I can accept them and support them in their calling, or I can let them go.

 

I don’t know if that’s a decision I can fully make right now. I want to immediately soothe his fears, to reassure him that I’ll always be there with and for him and Murphy no matter what, but a nagging little feeling in the bottom of my heart holds me back from simply diving head first into an affirmative answer.

 

But he needs me here right now, in this moment, and I can at least give him that.

 

I raise Connor’s hands to my lips, placing gentle kisses on his palms before kissing carefully next to the cuts on his wrists. I pull his face down to mine, pressing my lips to his forehead and his closed eyelids, on his cheekbones and finally on the corners of his mouth. He accepts these kisses passively, even submissively at first, but as my lips brush the edge of his, I finally elicit a reaction from him.

 

His hands move shockingly fast, fisting in my hair and pulling my mouth firmly to his. My scalp aches under the pressure of his grip, and I don’t even remotely consider asking him to release me. He turns us so the spray hits my back, and I inhale sharply at the drastic change in temperature. His lips drop to my throat, sucking water droplets from my skin, and my arms go around him automatically, dragging him impossibly close as I breathe his name out like a prayer.

 

“Stay wit’ me, Grace. I need ye more d’n I can ever tell ye.” The words are heated and determined, flowing over my skin wherever his lips touch. “I know ye, I know yer not okay wit’ what we’re doin’, an’ I can’t force ye t’accept it. All I c’n do is ask ye not t’go. Yer th’only t’ing in me life dat’s sane right now. Yer anchorin’ me t’what still makes sense, and I need ye.”

 

As he speaks, he backs me into the corner of the shower, and the chilled tile is pressed abruptly to my flushed skin, raising goosebumps and sending tiny shivers down my back. His lips drop lower, laying open-mouthed kisses between and around my breasts before moving down the plane of my belly and finally to the tops of my thighs. Connor slides smoothly to his knees in front of me, his eyes boring entreatingly into mine before he turns back to his task.

 

“You cheat when you ask me like this,” I moan, gazing slack-jawed down at his head moving down the inside of my leg. His teeth scrape along my inner thigh, and I shiver with anticipation. “That’s not fair, Connor, I can’t think straight when you do that.”

 

He looks up at my words, and the fierce possessiveness that burns in his eyes evaporates any of my remaining protests. When he speaks, his voice is a low, primitive growl that I reverberates to my marrow, and though he’s quiet I have no trouble understanding him over the rushing water.

 

“Mark me, lass; I never once told ye I’d fight fair t’keep ye. I’ll do any fuckin’ t’ing I can t’hold onto ye. Don’t even t’ink fer a second dat I’ll be fair when it comes to protectin’ ye an’ lookin’ after ye. Yer mine, girl, an’ I keep what’s mine. Now hold on t’me, ‘m gonna show ye just how fuckin’ much I missed ye while y’were gone.”

 

Even as the thrill of his heated words washes through me, sending sparks to exactly the right places, he dips his head again, lips and teeth leaving faint, reddish trails as he applies his gilt tongue to a spot on the inside of my thigh about eight inches above my knee that he knows for a fact will make my brain short out.

 

“Don’t you dare...think you can...push me over with...with your tongue, Connor. Staying is...my...my decision and...I will...I am NOT just staying for...for the sex…Dammit, Connor!”

 

He pauses, and I can feel his grin against the inside of knee. “Would never in me life call ye a pushover, lass. God in Heaven help me if I t’ought fer a second I could push ye ‘round. Dis is more of a ‘thank ye’ dan anyt’in’ else. Know ye ain’t stayin’ just fer th’sex, lass, but ye gotta admit it ain’t exactly a turn off for ye, neither.”

 

I hate it when he’s right.

 

His tongue snakes up my thigh, tracing a burning line across my skin before centering on the juncture of my legs. He trails tiny nips downward that make me jump with every thrilling pinch and have my fingers threading tightly into his hair just to have something to hang on to.

 

“Connor…”

 

He scrapes his teeth across a particularly sensitive spot just above my clit, and I jump, my skin squeaking against the tile. One of Connor’s forearms comes up to press flat against my belly, pushing me back against the wall of the shower and holding me firmly. Fortunately, he switches from surprise nips with his teeth to leisurely exploration with his tongue, and I can feel the tension in my legs begin to wash away in the spray of the shower.

 

“I can’t...can’t answer you if you’re going to k...keep that up, Connor, I-”

 

His tongue plunges downwards, swirling and circling over every nerve ending between my legs before running down my slit to dip inside me. My admonitions die on my lips, and I let my head fall back against the wall with a defeated moan, my fingers clenching reflexively into his hair as I hang on for dear life.  

 

Connor moves his attention to my clit, tonguing it with deliberate pressure as he runs his free hand up the inside of my leg. His fingers knead my flesh slowly and deeply on their way up, and my knees weaken as desire sparks through me, hot and painful. His thumb replaces his tongue, pressing hard against the swollen bundle of nerves, and I jerk with shock at the sudden change in sensation, my back arching away from the wall. He leans back, watching me writhe in front of him as he slides two fingers inside me, curling them exactly right against my inner wall.

 

“You’re killing me, Connor,” I manage to say just before he adds a third finger and his thumb bears down. My breath catches in a sharp, gasping whimper, and I can’t help but rock my hips forward in time with his thrusts, shamelessly chasing the release I feel coming.

 

“‘Tis my pleasure, lass. You’re fuckin’ gorgeous when ye ride me hand like dat. Ye gonna come fer me?” His fingers tilt forward just a shade more, and my knees really do buckle then, but Connor manages to keep me upright with his supportive arm as the hot water pouring down on us slowly begins to cool.

 

“Yes...God, yes, Connor, I-”

 

He exchanges his thumb for his tongue once more, his fingers keeping that exquisite rhythm inside me. I am in Heaven, and yet somehow I still want more. I want more than just his fingers on me and his mouth working me over. I want all of him, and I want him _fucking now_. I pull hard on his hair, jerking his face away with an abrupt, painful loss of sensation.

 

“Lass, what-”

 

“You, inside me, now,” I pant, aching and frantic with need.

 

“Turn around an’ plant yer hands good on th’wall.” His tone leaves no room for argument, and my hands are on the tile without further delay. There’s not really anything to grip, but I trust him not to let me fall. I feel him stand behind me, deliberately dragging his hands up my legs, my hips, my ribs, the side of my breasts. My breath catches over and over, roughly every inch or so of his progress, until I’m a dizzy, quivering mess.

 

His hands reach my shoulders, dragging my sopping hair to side, baring my neck to his torturous kisses. His fingers ripple gently, teasingly light on my skin as they glide back down my spine and around the side of my hips. He lifts, pulling my ass back and out just a little, lining himself up before entering me languidly. I am in no way responsible for the noise that escapes my throat then, and I hear him sigh in rapt satisfaction.

 

His strokes are deep and thoroughly unrushed. After just a few moments, though, he steps closer to me, pulling me upright and flush against him, pressing my stomach and breasts flat against the wall. His chest and shoulders are steaming against my chilled back, and I moan drunkenly, my breath steaming across the cool, clammy tile.

 

I didn’t realize having not a single millimeter between us was the one thing missing from this encounter. Connor presses impossibly closer until his chin rests on my shoulder, his hand covering mine on the wall next to my cheek.

 

“Yer _mine_ ,” he snarls savagely in my ear, his tone disquietingly incongruent with the steady, calculated pace of his strokes. “Ye hear me?” His days old stubble grates against the tender skin of my neck and ear, and for a delirious moment I wonder whether that might be my favorite feeling in the entire world. Then he thrusts into me once more, grinding against me and crushing me against the wall. He squeezes the air from my lungs, and I have to wait until he pulls back again to answer him.

 

“I thought I was yours _and_ Murphy’s-”

 

“When we’re both wit’ ye, ye belong t’bot’ of us. But Murphy ain’t here right now, an’ when it’s just you an’ me, yer fuckin’ _mine_ , girl.”

 

I’m finished before his sentence is.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is chapter 10. I'm currently working on chapter 26. The more response, the faster the next bit goes up. Thanks muchly for reading.


	11. Chapter 11

“Did ya have to use  _ all  _ the hot water?” Rocco complains from the bathroom.

I glance at Connor, the back of my neck flushing as he turns a satisfied smirk in my direction. I try to hide my smile behind the croissant I’m eating as I look away; Connor doesn’t need his head getting any bigger. Murphy glances at me, then his brother, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“I slept funny last night,” I mutter, not sure why I’m embarrassed. “I was sore, so I went to take a shower, but Connor was already there, and the...hot water...helped,” I finish lamely.

Murphy glances at brother appraisingly, looking mildly impressed. “How’d ye manage it, Con? Ain’t ye still pained an’ bruised?”

I glance between them, confused by Connor’s glare and his brother’s amusement. “How did he manage what? Sex? Why shouldn’t he be able to?”

“Shit, dat’s right!” Murphy exclaims, his face overjoyed. “Ye never told her about yer run in wit’ dat hellbeast at work! Lass, Wednesday mornin’, we’re training dis new...er...woman at work, an’ Con, th’ladies man he is, sets her temper off, an’ she gives ‘im a kick straight t’th’lads!”

“O’course,” Murphy adds, his smirk growing into a full blown grin, "I had t’defend his honor, and I knocked dat monster flat out. Nobody hurts me delicate little brudder an’ gets away wit’ it.” He ducks Connor’s blow, and I move my chair back from the table, out of the line of fire, still staring incredulously between the two of them.

“Murphy, why...Okay, no, that’s the wrong question; I know why you hit her, but...I’m not trying to have double standards, I swear, but you seriously knocked a woman out? At work? In front of other people? How were you not arrested for that?”

“Ye don’t understand the size of dis woman, lass,” he says, swatting away another hit from Connor. “She had at least four inches on us, and maybe fifty or so pounds. All muscle, dat one. Weren’t no question about it bein’ an unfair fight.”

Connor settles back in his seat, his mouth set in a hard line, still frowning at Murphy, and I touch his hand to get his attention. He takes a page from my book, breathing in slowly through his nose and letting the air out through his mouth before shaking his head as if to clear it. He turns a questioning look on me.

“Aye, lass?”

“You had your balls kicked in not a week ago. I’m betting you’re still bruised and maybe even a little swollen, and I don’t know how I managed to miss that in the shower. Why would you think it was a good idea to have sex so soon? Didn’t that hurt like hell? What were you thinking?”

The look he gives me is one he typically reserves for people asking unreasonably stupid questions they should know the answer to like “Why is this water so wet?”

“I was thinkin’ dat I’d rather ache a bit t’day than go another wit’out makin’ ye say m’name like dat again.”

Oh.

Murphy snickers at the two of us as Connor glowers and smolders at me at the same time, setting my skin blazing with a deep, renewed flush. A tired but comfortable silence settles over the three of us, and I finish my croissant while Connor and Murphy nurse two very large coffees. Just as I hear the shower shut off in the bathroom, Murphy speaks up again, his face abruptly serious.

“Gonna talk some more t’day an’ finish tellin’ ye everyt’in’. Ye t’ink yer up fer it?”

This isn’t a question to take lightly, judging by the earnest looks on both the twins’ faces. Connor is a little more relaxed now, but his face still has that drawn, pained look, and Murphy isn’t far behind. Though they were laughing and joking with Rocco about it last night, I wonder just how funny they both actually found the whole hotel room massacre.

“I need to hear it, whether I want to or not,” I say deliberately, watching the flickers of both relief and trepidation cross Murphy’s face. Both of the twins seem older, now that I’m able to really look at them. Murphy’s eyes especially look tired, like he’s lived some rough years in the last week.

I reach out and lightly rest my palm on his jaw. His eyelids close, and he turns his face into my touch, letting out a breath I think he’s been holding since last night. His hands come up to cup the outside of mine, and he holds us like that, his face hidden from me.

“I love you both, and I don’t think we can function with secrets between us, not secrets this huge, anyway. It will take some major adjusting for me to really handle what you have to say, and there  _ will be _ more freakouts on my part, but I think after what we’ve been through together so far I at least deserve the chance to freak out over the truth instead of imagining all the horrible things that  _ might _ have happened.”

Murphy nods his silent agreement into my palm, and I’m shocked when I feel moisture gathering there. A slight, barely noticeable tremor runs through his shoulders, and my eyes fly to Connor’s. He flicks his gaze to the door, then back to me before he stands, and I understand he’s going to give me and Murphy some time alone.

“Roc,” he calls, smacking his hand flat against the bathroom door. “Hurry up, we got some errands t’run. Meet me outside when yer done.”

Connor drops a kiss on my forehead, heading for the door, but he pauses behind his brother, resting a hand on one of Murphy’s broad shoulders for a second. After a moment, Murphy nods, still never moving his face from my hand. Connor returns the nod, squeezing Murphy before releasing him and walking away. Connor grabs his coat and shuts the front door behind him.

A minute later, Rocco stumbles out of the bathroom, pulling his boots on and grabbing his own coat on the way out. He glances at Murphy and me, both of us still sitting frozen at the kitchen table, and raises his eyebrows. I frown and shake my head slightly, and Rocco shrugs before setting out after Connor.

I wait until I can’t hear his footsteps in the hallways anymore before saying, “C’mon, Murphy, let’s get more comfortable.” I stand, tugging him to his feet, though he seems reluctant to remove my hand from his face. He follows me to my bedroom, clutching my hand tightly in his like he can’t let it go. It takes some maneuvering, but I manage to get us both lying down on the bed with Murphy’s head cradled against my shoulder without ever releasing his hand.

“Talk to me,” I murmur. “Let it out. There’s no one here but us.”

His eyes are closed, and if it weren’t for the hard set of his jaw and the rigid tension of his back under my fingers, he could be asleep. We lay like that for so long that I start to drift off myself, lulled by the warmth seeping into me from the man beside me, by my rhythmic stroking of his back, by the soothing beat of his heart where his chest presses to my side. When Murphy finally speaks, he’s so quiet that I have to turn towards him a little to hear everything he says.

“Th’Russians busted inta th’flat when we was still wakin’ up. Hadn’t even gotten off th’bed yet. Dey clocked Connor cross the face wit’ one of dem hand cannons, huge fuckin’ gun, and when Connor looked up, dere was blood streakin’ down t’whole side o’his face. Seen ‘im wit’ blood on his face b’fore; I’m usually t’one t’put it dere. But they were screamin’ an’ wavin’ dem pistols around, an’ me an’ Con was still hungover from t’night b’fore, an’ den Connor’s cuffing himself to th’toilet.”

I run my fingers deep through Murphy’s hair, caressing his scalp and gently rubbing the tight muscles in the back of his neck.

“Dat Ivan fucker tells Connor he came there to kill him but that he’s gonna kill me now instead. And den dose fat fuckers shove me out t’door, an’ Connor’s screamin’ me name, an’ I swear to Christ, lass, I t’ought I was never gonna see me brudder again.”  

Murphy shudders against me, twining his arms around my waist and pulling me closer.

“Don’t even r’member gettin’ down t’th’alley, but suddenly we’re standin’ dere, and dey shove me down t’m’knees wit’ dat giant gun in me face, nothin’ on but me boxers, bathrobe, an’ boots. Dat fat fucker is laughin’, sayin’ somethin’ about clear consciences, an’ all I can t’ink is that I’m about to die an’ I’ll never see Connor or you again, dat I didn’t get t’see ye b’fore ye came back. How much I wished I was wit’ ye right den, an’ how much I t’anked God ye  _ weren’t _ dere. I was gonna die in an alley surrounded by trash and fat-fuck mobsters, and I had no idea what you an’ Connor were gonna do wit’out me.”

He goes quiet and still, but I have sense enough to know he isn’t done. I kiss his forehead gently, my fingers still working through his hair over and over, and I pull his hand up to my face to press a kiss into the palm.

He looks up at me suddenly, his eyes a penetrating, azure fire that burns straight to my heart.

“When Connor landed on that fucker, I didn’t hafta think about what needed doin’. I grabbed th’toilet lid an’ beat that Russian fuck til he didn’t move anymore. I didn’t regret it then, an’ I don’t regret it now. An’ den I couldn’t wake Connor up, couldn’t get ‘im to move, an’ I t’ought he was dead fer a full second. Den that asshole finally breathed again, an’ I felt his pulse, an’ it was like the world clicked back inta place. Only time I’ve ever felt anywhere near dat lost is when we found ye in th’alley not movin’, wit’ dose assholes standin’ over ye.”

He pauses, deliberating over his next words. “Grace, fer a full second, I had t’face t’world wit’out me brudder, an’ it nearly killed me. I can’t do it again...but wit’ what we’re doin’ now, what we have t’do, I might have t’face it, an’ I don’t know how I could...how to-”

I shift down a little so Murphy’s face is pressed into my neck, keeping him from having to finish that sentence. I don’t have any soothing or reassuring words to give him that will make all this better. I don’t even have an emotional band-aid I can put on this to at least cover it up and make it feel better for now.

I kiss his forehead and the damp corners of his eyes, his eyebrows, his cheekbones, the mole by the corner of his mouth.

“As much as I’m able, I understand,” I murmur against his forehead. His arms tighten around me, and he holds me tightly for a long time. After a few minutes, I feel him shift beside me. Then he grips me hard, rolling us until I’m lying on top of him, my ear resting on his chest above his heart. His nose nudges the top of my head, and he inhales deeply before releasing the breath with a low, tired moan.

“Stay wit’ me Grace,” he whispers into my hair, unknowingly echoing his brother’s words. “Please, just...I need ye,  _ we _ need ye, an’ dis is too hard to do wit’out knowin’ I’ve got ye t’come back to. I know it ain’t fair t’put dat weight on ye, but please lass...just...please?”

I squeeze Murphy tightly in response, not trusting my voice to hold steady, and his arms constrict around me again. I feel that uncertainty again, that nagging feeling I had in the shower with Connor earlier that grips my vocal cords tight and keeps me from blurting out a hasty, unthinking yes. This isn’t a decision I can make on a whim, and I hate that I can’t just tell them both what they want to hear. It’s difficult to breathe, but I can’t tell if it’s from the pressure of Murphy’s arms or the tears that are starting to stream from my eyes again.

“I’m like goddamn Niagara Falls,” I mutter, turning my face down into Murphy’s chest and sniffling. He laughs suddenly, his abdomen shaking underneath me, and I look up at him through my tears. His head is lying back against my pillows, and for the first time since I’ve come home, his smile is full and genuine.

He turns his eyes to mine, and they are absolutely radiant. “I love ye, Grace. Please don’t ever change.”

“I make no promises,” I grumble, wiping my leaking nose on his shirt and sniffling again. Then he’s sitting up and pulling me with him, his hands on my cheeks and his nose an inch from mine.

“You an’ Connor an’ Roc are me world, an’ if ye tell ‘em I said dat, I’ll make ye pay dearly.” He slants his mouth across mine, but his lips are gentle and coaxing instead of the raw force I’m expecting. He steals my breath slowly and sweetly, placing kisses and delicate, enticing touches across my face, my neck, and my shoulders.

“Remind me why I missed you, Murphy.”

“Aye, lass. Workin’ on it.”

We stay in bed together for almost two hours, and Murphy takes more care with me than in all the time we’ve been together, tasting and exploring, as if he’s mapping out and memorizing every inch of me. And my heart aches that much more for him.

“Why are you and Connor so convinced I’m leaving you?” I ask suddenly. “You both seem to think it’s a given.” I’m lying on my side next to him with my face turned to the wall, shivering slightly from aftershocks, and he pulls me closer so that I feel his breath, warm and enticingly familiar, against my shoulder as he answers.

“Well, when we told ye some of the rougher parts of th’last few days, ye stormed outta the room,” Murphy replies reasonably, tracing a tickling line across my hipbone with the tip of his pinky. I squirm under his touch, giggling under my breath at the sensation.

“I stormed out because you idiots were laughing about killing nine men. I failed to see the humor in the situation, so I left before I said something I regretted. It’s not that I think you’re wrong. I guess it’s more that I didn’t think you were taking things as seriously as you probably should. Of course, that was before I actually talked to you both alone and without an audience, and...I kind of get it now. I know sometimes, especially when things are the absolute worst they can be, you have to find something to laugh at or you’ll go insane.”

Murphy doesn’t answer, instead continuing to run his fingers down my hips and around the curve of my ass. I murmur something incoherent and pleased, wiggling just a bit closer to him.

“T’ing is, girl, ye didn’t see Rocco at dat hotel room. If ye had, ye’d understand why Connor an’ I were laughin’ so much at ‘im. Done up in a fuckin’ bellhop outfit, wit’ his hair all a mess an’ shit, an’ a nametag on dat said ‘Jaffar.’ Of all t’fuckin’ name tags he coulda swiped, he ends up wit’ Jaffar. And den once he knew it was us an’ saw what we’d done, he was jumpin’ around like a deranged monkey on crack, spoutin’ every version of t’word ‘fuck’ dat ye could t’ink of an’ prob’ly a few ye can’t.”

“I guess you had to be there,” I sigh, a corner of my mouth tilting up at the mental picture Murphy is describing. His fingers continue their exploration, moving around and over my hip before sliding underneath me on the side furthest from him. Without warning, he flips me over onto my back and drops down on top of me so we’re touching from chest to shins. His pupils are huge, the blue barely showing around the rims, and he nudges my nose with his.

“Ye done with tender an’ delicate, now, lass?”

“Oh, God yes,” I manage to choke out through my suddenly arid mouth. I swipe my tongue over my lips, moistening them before catching my breath again as Murphy’s teeth scrape harshly over the juncture of my neck and shoulder. “Do your worst.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be mad things with Murphy weren't more explicit; he'll get his time. I'm glad I have such a lovely backlog of chapters because I've hit another one of those walls again. The reviews everyone left were so lovely. Thanks so much, and also another shout out to bleedingrose0688, to whom I should really shout out every chapter, for going over things and making the story soooo much better. Gonna work on breaking down that wall. Thanks for reading, everyone. If you liked it, leave a thought or two in the box on your way out.


	12. Chapter 12

Several hours, way too much junk food, and two (no, wait...three...four...no, no, definitely three) boilermakers later, I’m trying to sort through everything Rocco and the twins have told me. I’m still confused (and very buzzed), so I don’t think I’m doing a very good job summarizing their misadventures.

 

It’s Sunday night at around 11:30, and McGinty’s is deserted. Doc’s not usually open this late on Sundays, but he didn’t have the heart to kick us out after I gave him puppy eyes and a kiss on the cheek. The lights are dim, and for once Doc has some decent music playing in the background as he wipes down the bottles behind the bar, a classic rock station I’m not familiar with.

 

We’re sitting in the booth I like so much in the back corner, the one that’s got chairs on one side and bench seats on the other, and I’m leaning forward, half-sprawled across the table. I’m just barely staying propped up with my chin resting in my palms, peering intently at Rocco and Murphy while Connor rubs my back with the hand that isn’t holding his whiskey.

 

“So, lemme explain this all back to make sure I’ve got it straight. No, that would take way too long. Lemme sum up,” I say as Queen’s “Under Pressure” starts up in the background. I take an invigorating swig from my water, having been cut off of the hard stuff by the boys about forty minutes ago. My eyebrows knit together with concentration as I try to recall the most pertinent details from their insane story.

 

“St. Patrick’s Day: Connor and Murphy go to mass, then to work. Connor gets attacked by a giant lesbian. Ma calls, gives you two exactly what you deserve. You go to McGinty’s, celebration and libation ensue. Russians come in, break up the party, get beat down and set on fire.”

 

“Par fer th’course so far,” Connor smiles, taking a sip from his glass. “Speakin’ o’dat conversation wit’ Ma, by t’way, been meanin’ t’ask ye-”

 

“Hush, the grown up is talking.” I swat at his chest, which has about as much effect as a fly landing on a table, but he graciously lets me continue. “The next day, Thursday, Russians break down the door, which, can I just say I told you so about getting the damn thing fixed? Because I totally did. But anyway, they cuff Connor, take Murphy to the alley. Connor ruins Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s ceiling, jumps off the roof, and the toilet crushes...who? Ivan, the big guy? Is that the ass fire guy or the bandage head guy?” I can’t keep all the details straight. Despite a decent night of sleep, I’m still exhausted, and I’m sure the alcohol isn’t helping my level of attentiveness. Also, frankly, I’m just plain overwhelmed.

 

Murphy chokes on his pint, coughing while Rocco pounds him on the back. He sets his glass on the table, still spluttering and laughing as he smacks Rocco’s hand away. I glower at him, annoyed at the interruption of my narration.

 

Murphy finally clears his lungs enough to choke out, “Aye, lass, Ivan was th’ass fire guy who was crushed by th’toilet. Dat was nicely put. An’ Connor landed on t’other guy.” Okay, I’m slightly mollified by his compliment.

 

“Thanks. I think. So, anyways, Connor drops the toilet on Ivan Fire Pants, lands on head bandage guy, and passes out because who the hell jumps off the top of a six story building, am I right? And then Murphy beats down Mummy Head with the toilet tank lid, takes their guns and money because, at this point, why the fuck not? And then he picks up Connor, which by the way, Murph, let me just say _damn_ , because I can’t even pull the covers out from under him when he falls asleep, much less deadlift his ass. Then you take Evel Knievel over here to the hospital.”

 

“Right in one,” Murphy says, saluting me with his glass and smirking at his scowling sibling.

 

“And I’m not even to Friday yet?” I’m tired of thinking. Thinking hurts. Too much has happened, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep it all straight.

 

“So...let’s just...fast forward a bit,” I say, reaching for my water again. My fingertips brush the glass, but I swear the little fucker keeps moving out of my reach. Murphy takes pity on me and pushes my drink into my hand, kindly refraining from comment. I drain the last of the water from the glass and continue.

 

“Hospital. Turned yourselves in. Talked to FBI guy who had most everything figured out. By the way, I still don’t believe you told him you set Russian Sasquatch’s ass on fire. I’m just saying, there’s no way you get out of real jail time on that one. But then you have your dream that night, and I have my dream that night, and I would just like to register for the official record that I think it’s thoroughly unfair that I get stuck with the Texas Chainsaw Massacre of spiritually awakening dreams, and you just get what amounts to a freakin’ long distance phone call and a shower.”

 

Murphy chokes again and has to walk away from the table for a minute before he is able to recover his composure. I continue my summary without him, trying to get through everything before I lose all the important parts to the exhaustion I feel creeping in. I yawn widely, rubbing my eyes. I have to make it through this conversation, though. It’s already taken us the better part of two days to get this far, and I really don’t want it to spill over into a third day, if I can help it.

 

“So you get the page and call the number, get the details for the Russian meeting. Then you, what? Go to the gun dealer guy? How do you even know him, anyway?”

 

“Worked at th’factory wit’ us fer a minute b’fore he left fer a more...lucrative career, let’s say,” Connor answers. Murphy finally returns, having noticed my drooping eyelids, and pushes a tall glass of Coke across the table in my direction.

 

I stare at it for a long moment before I look up at him and say with complete sincerity, “I love you. I want you to know that right now.”

 

He smiles, for some reason shaking his head at me. I don’t understand why; I totally meant what I said. Murphy gets me, and I want him to know I appreciate it. But if I keep getting distracted like this, I’ll never finish my recap of the weekend, and I really need to. I take a long, blissful slurp from the glass, earning me another smile and a head shake, which I do my best to ignore.

 

“So you go pull the job at the hotel, Steven Seagal kind of stuff in the ceiling and all that. You never did say how you got into the room, by the way.”

 

“Dumbass over there got us lost then started shit when I pointed out how fuckin’ shtupid his plan and his damn rope were,” Murphy smirks in Connor’s direction.

 

Connor immediately fires back with, “Shtupid fuckin’ rope’s what kept us from crackin’ our skulls on th’floor after yer dumb ass thought ye could take me. Air duct detached an’ crashed through th’ceilin’. Dropped us right inta th’ middle of th’ meetin’, an’ we got caught in th’rope, hangin’ upside down, an’ took ‘em all down. An’ it wouldn’ta happened if it weren’t for my shtupid rope, so go fuck yerself, Murph!”

 

Murphy is obviously gearing up for an epic battle of insults, but I put paid to that on the spot.

 

“ _Hold it!_ First of all, grown up still talking, so shut it, both of you. Second, are you seriously telling me that you two couldn’t go without fighting for long enough to get through your plan, and _you broke the fucking air duct and fell through the ceiling_? What, coffee tables aren’t enough for you anymore?”

 

They have the decency to look slightly abashed, and I figure that’s the best I’m going to get out of the two of them, so I continue before I completely lose my train of thought.

 

“So then Rocco shows up with his gun, and by the way, Roc, I meant what I said yesterday morning about the machine gun. These ass hats were lucky, that’s all, regardless of all their bragging. So then you guys have your frat party at Rocco’s place and kill that poor cat, and I’m not even gonna comment on that one, you sick fucks. And then you get in a fight the next day about Rocco’s bosses setting him up, and Rocco takes off, and that’s where I come in, yeah?”

 

Rocco nods, avoiding my eyes for some reason, and I stare at him, squinting as I consider our conversation. “I saw the news report, and Rocco and I talked about it before we left for the diner, and then Rocco left to run an errand. Is that...is that when you went to Lakeview and...confronted those guys you used to work with?”

 

I stumble over the question even before he nods, and the realization of what I’ve done crashes over me. My head drops to my hands as I mutter every curse I can think of, my fingers gripping my scalp in an attempt to keep it from exploding with the rest of my head.

 

“What’s...eh...what’s amiss, lass?” Connor asks tentatively. His hand rests gently on my shoulder. He’s genuinely concerned, but I don’t deserve that kind of consideration right now.

 

Even I don’t understand my answer, as it’s muffled by my hands, so I look up at the three of them, tears forming in the corners of my eyes as I whisper, ”It’s my fault Rocco went there, that he killed those people. I practically killed them. It’s totally my fault. Because of what I said. He wouldn’t have gone there if I hadn’t said anything.”

 

The three men gawk silently at me for a long moment before the protests flood in all at once, but I’m too far into my misery to hear any of it. Finally, Connor sets his glass on the table and waves his hand to shut the other two up.

 

“Grace, all ye did was make his dumb ass realize what we were tryin’ t’tell him b’fore he stormed off like a little bitch.”

 

“Hey!” Rocco interjects, but Murphy silences him with a slap to the back of his head.

 

“Ye didn’t kill anyone, an’ ye ain’t responsible fer killin’ anyone. Ye probably saved Rocco’s life. If he hadn’t figured out which way was up an’ had gone back inta work or summat, I guarantee he wouldn’ta lasted th’day.”

 

I gaze up at Connor from where I’m sprawled on the tabletop, wanting very badly to believe him. “How Soon Is Now” by the Smiths follows “Under Pressure,” and I’m distracted enough for a moment to wonder who is picking the playlist down at the radio station tonight. I sniffle and glance hopefully from one twin to the other. They both nod seriously at me, and I start to think that maybe I’m not entirely responsible for Rocco’s rampage.

 

“So...okay, I’ll accept that for now, but have I missed anything so far?”

 

“Did you guys tell her about the little briefcase you found in the hotel room?” Rocco asks suddenly.

 

“Briefcase?” I ask, looking from Connor to Murphy. Did they have to sit so far apart? It sucks turning my head this much. I should probably just lay it down again, and-

 

“Can’t fall alseep yet, darlin’,” Connor murmurs in my ear. I come to with a jerk, my eyes flying open. I blink, shaking my head a little, wondering when I closed them in the first place.

 

“Not asleep,” I yawn, stretching and reaching for my soda. I take a long, delicious, icy gulp, and I swear I can feel the caffeine spreading through my veins. “Checking my eyelids for light leaks. What briefcase?”

 

“Dere was a little case in th’Copley dat we spotted afterwards,” Connor answers, pulling me up and snugging me into his side to keep me upright. If he wants to keep me awake, though, that’s not the best idea, since he is way more comfortable than the wooden tabletop I’ve been lying on. And a lot warmer. And he snuggles back.

 

“Found it on th’bar in th’hotel room,” Murphy takes up smoothly as he pushes my drink into my hand again. “Filled t’th’brim wit’ cash. All we can figure is dey were plannin’ on financin’ somethin’ dat won’t ever happen now. ‘Round t’two hundred grand or so in it in stacks of new hundreds an’ fifties.”

 

Holy shit. I am fully awake now.

 

“Two hundred thousand...dollars? You three have two hundred thousand real dollars? Like, U.S. currency? Not Monopoly money?”

 

I don’t see what’s so terribly amusing about my questions, as I’m being entirely serious, but the three of them are cracking up over my reaction.

 

“Well, it ain’t rubles,” Connor grins down at me. “Aye, lass. Tis very real. Ye c’n smell it an’ everythin’. Got it hid somewhere safe. Ye dont’ have t’worry ‘bout us blowin’ it all in one go.”

 

“I wasn’t.” And I’m really not worried about that part. Them spending the money didn’t even cross my mind. I’m still trying to wrap my head around Connor and Murphy, who live in what basically amounts to an abandoned warehouse and wear threadbare bathrobes that had to have come from either a donation box at church or just straight out the trash can somewhere, having enough cash on them at one time to literally buy a freaking house. I cannot process this information right now.

 

“So. Okay. I’m gonna have to put that aside to think about later. Let’s talk about something easier to understand. I need to finish recapping before I lose too many details. Okay. So The Lakeview happened, and it wasn’t really my fault. You guys stand me up. What was that all about?”

 

“Waitin’ fer dis dumbass t’get back in one piece, den he has his hissy fit an’ pretty much breaks up wit’ Donna, we leave his place an’ make a quick stop, den we came t’find ye,” Murphy fills in.

 

“Okay, so then I have my shopping rampage. I read the newspaper. You two come busting into my place and scare the shit outta me. Fast forward to Saturday night when you three all leave to go...somewhere. Now is the time to explain where somewhere was and what you did there.”

 

Instead of answering, Connor and Murphy both look to Rocco, who looks surprised by their sudden attention.

 

“What? Why me?”

 

“We were dere b’cause of ye, Roc,” Connor answers slowly, like he’s speaking to a small, exasperating child. “Maybe ye want t’tell her why?”

 

“Oh! Right! Sorry. Yeah, so, the guy who set me up in the first place and sent me to the hotel with nothin’ but a six-shooter for nine guys, this fat fuck Elvis wanna-be asshole, he always goes to this titty dancer joint the same night every week. We’re talking’ about it in the car, and I realize these two idiots don’t have any sort of plan on how to carry out their new ‘mission,’ like no idea how to pick and find the scum they wanna get rid of, so I point out that I know fuckin’ everybody, right? I know everything about ‘em, where they live, what they do after hours, and-”

 

“Get on wit’ it, Roc,” Murphy snaps, smacking Rocco’s arm.

 

“Fuck you. Anyway, so we get our shit together and head down there and take care of Vincenzo first thing, but then these other guys come in, buncha real low-life scumbags, y’know? And Connor and Murph recognized ‘em, knew they did some rotten shit, so we, uh...cleaned house.”

 

My stomach turns involuntarily, and I gulp silently, forcing soda past the sudden knot in my throat. My eyes drift down to the table as the boys recount some of the details. I’m starting to feel a little dizzy again, but I don’t think it’s from the alcohol. As Murphy begins to rip into Rocco, making some comment about tipping of all things, Connor stands, pulling me up with him.

 

“Gonna step outside fer some air,” Connor tells Murphy and Rocco before I can ask. Murphy takes one glance at me, huddled under Connor’s arm with my face probably some delicate shade of green, and nods, starting to rise from his seat.

 

“It’s okay, Murph,” I manage with a weak smile. “I’m fine, I just...need another period of adjustment, that’s all.” Murphy resumes his seat, looking mildly mutinous, but he stays put as Connor leads me away.

 

Instead of turning to the front door, I steer us towards the back, and Connor dutifully opens the door that lets us out into the alley. There’s a nice, comfy pile of discarded wooden crates, and I settle down gingerly on the nearest lone box, wondering how long it will support my weight.

 

The alley doesn’t smell the greatest, even by South Boston back alley standards, but the night is cool, and there’s a good breeze going. I watch Connor pull a pack of smokes out of his back pocket, extracting one and lighting up in a fluid series of motions that is more habit than conscious decision. He stands a few feet away, downwind of me, the lit end occasionally illuminating his face with a faint reddish-orange glow.

 

“What’s on yer mind?”

 

I realize I’m staring at a very particular spot on the ground, my eyebrows knit together in concentration. I don’t know what my face looks like, but if it’s mirroring the bog of turmoil and chagrin that is my mind, it’s got to look pretty troubled right about now. I clear my throat, willing my stomach to settle down. At least if I throw up again, there’s nothing out here I can ruin.

 

“Just...well, I feel like a bit of a hypocrite at the moment, actually.”

 

This statement is apparently not what Connor was expecting to hear. He lowers his cigarette, gauging the dejectedness of my tone and my slumped over posture, then stubs his smoke out on the sole of his boot, sticking the remainder behind his ear. He drags another crate around so he’s sitting in front of me, his knees on either side of mine. He leans forward so his hands are resting on my thighs and he’s eye level with me from just a couple of inches away.

 

Even in the faintly flickering light of the dim light bulb above Doc’s back door, I can see the concern and confusion etched across his face.

 

“Why d’ye feel dat way? What do ye think ye did t’warrant it?”

 

“I keep freaking out over every little thing you guys tell me about the few days,” I finally answer. It’s hard to put into words exactly what I’m thinking right now, but Connor is patient as I sort through my emotional snarl. My thoughts wind all the way back to New Year’s Eve a few months earlier, rehashing the brief interlude that took place not ten feet away from where I’m sitting right now.

 

“Connor, I crouched in this alley, right over there, and ruined the hands of two men because of the violent crimes the committed. I didn’t regret it then, and I don’t regret it now. I’m more bothered because I acted as judge, jury, and an executioner of sorts, on my own with no prompting from you.”

 

“No prompting except us delivering those assholes straight t’yer lap,” Connor says neutrally, his eyes locked on mine. His fingers press a little harder into my legs, but as I’m beginning to tremble again, I get the feeling that he’s trying to steady me more than anything.

 

“Still, though. I did something well outside the law, something violent, something I felt was right because I thought it was what I needed to do. I can’t think of a single instance that could make me regret what I did to those men. I know part of that comes from what they did to me and Mary and that girl Carla, but…”

 

Connor waits patiently, letting my tipsy thoughts sort themselves out. Another breeze rolls through the alley, chill and invigorating, rousing my sluggish brain a little more. Somewhere nearby, a siren rises then fades away. Connor’s eyes never leave mine, though, focusing entirely on me as he waits for me to finish.

 

“I did that all that of my own volition, and yet when you tell me what you’ve done, I can’t handle it. I mean, I basically did the same thing, and-”

 

“Grace.” He speaks my name softly, but it’s enough to cut me off mid-ramble, even though I’m building up quite a head of anxious steam.

 

“Th’ whole world’s turned upside down in under a week. Ye left fer two months, an’ when ye came back, nothin’ made sense. I t’ink ye got a right t’feel a bit messed up in yer head an’ yer heart. An’ yer stomach,” he adds, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “What ye did on New Year’s, dat was one t’ing, but ye’ve never taken a life, an’ I don’t expect ye t’accept t’dis like it was a regular t’ing. Takin’ anudder person’s life ain’t a normal part o’everyday life, an’ I won’t say it’s a nice t’ing, but I will say it’s a necessary one in dis case.”

 

“I...I know it is. I just...I don’t know. Why am I having such a hard time and you guys act like it was a typical Saturday night hanging out?”

 

“Don’t rightly know, love,” he says, his voice heavy with something. Sympathy, maybe? I automatically feel rotten and burdensome that after everything he and Murphy have been through, he still has to feel sorry for me. I’m not the one who’s been forced into this role, who feels that compulsion to wipe out the evil in the world.

 

“Do ye t’ink we were wrong in any of what we’ve done? Honestly, deep in yer heart?”

 

I shake my head, not trusting my trembling vocal cords.

 

“Do ye t’ink we coulda done anythin’ else, given th’circumstances?”

 

Again, I shake my head. The knot pulling my heart and stomach painfully tight slowly begins to loosen, and I feel like I can breathe a little easier.

 

“Can ye stand wit’ us, at least stay wit’ us if we keep doin’ what we’re doin’? Do ye have it in ye to keep hearin’ th’stories an’ dealin’ wit’ th’aftermath? It ain’t pretty, an’ I know it ain’t always gonna go well. Knowin’ we have ye dere fer us when we come back from this, it means more dan anythin’ I c’n put inta words, but if ya can’t do it, I won’t…”

 

He trails off, his gaze fixed intently and imploringly on my face. I can’t answer right away; I feel like he and Murphy deserve my full deliberation, and as hard as it is to think right now, I’m going to do my damndest.

 

Both twins have asked me this question today. They’ve both asked me to stay, and in those moments, just the two of each of them alone with me, I knew what I wanted, and yet I still couldn’t give either of them the answer I know they want to hear. Sitting here in the dimly lit alley, the scene of my own quasi-vigilante moment, I know that I need to think this through as thoroughly as I can, and when I tell Connor my answer this time, I need to know exactly what I’m saying.

 

Up until a few months ago, I’d never really experienced violence. I’d seen news reports and such about the crime in the city, but I didn’t know anyone who had been personally affected, and I had never been directly affected. Yeah, I’d seen some bar fights at McGinty’s a few times, but there was no malevolence there, just a bunch of drunken idiots letting out aggression.

 

I know what Connor and Murphy are doing is right. The real question is can I go through them doing these things, recounting the reasoning and the planning and the killing over and over. I knew in the shower with Connor this morning, I knew with Murphy in bed just a little later, and I know now that I don’t ever want to be apart from them.

 

But am I what _they_ need? Am I good enough, strong enough to stand behind them throughout this...what, crusade?

 

I remember a time, about a year and a half ago, when the three of us were a new thing. The first night Murphy and I spent together, after Connor and I had been semi-serious for a few months, I went up on the roof to sort through my sleepless thoughts. I came to the same question that night, too. If I’d never been good enough for one man before, how could I be good enough for two?

 

The question rings through my head more than ever now. They picked me out of all the women they could’ve had, and somehow we’ve managed to stick together. Now they have this calling, and I have to figure out if I can handle being their support system in a situation I’m not even sure I can stay afloat in. Can I do that for them, be there through all the violence and the death and the weight of this responsibility? Can I help them carry this burden for possibly the rest of our lives, however long or dreadfully short that might be?

 

I don’t know.

 

I raise my eyes back to Connor’s, frowning as I wrangle my thoughts into coherent sentences.

 

“I don’t know if I can, Connor. But I know that I want to try. I can’t promise that I’ll always immediately understand and accept what you’re doing, but I can promise I will try to. Can that be enough for now? Can I have that chance?”

 

“Aye, lass.” He opens his arms, and I lean into his embrace, gladly shutting my eyes and burying my face into the warmth of his chest. “If ye c’n stand t’take a chance on our sorry arses, we c’n stand t’take one wit’ you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Broken Timepieces, you guys have to tell me when I forget to post a chapter! I really thought I had posted this week. Seriously, if it's been more than a week since I've posted, y'all have to let me know. Thanks for reading, and please to leave a thought or two on your way out.


	13. Chapter 13

“So...what now?” I ask. I have a sudden, overwhelming sense of deja vu and shake my head at the sensation. I think I asked this question yesterday, too. I’m so tired, and I don’t know how they aren’t dropping from exhaustion. “Is it bed time yet?”

 

“As next steps go, bed sounds about right,” Connor replies, standing and offering me his hand. “Fer th’future, dunno. Don’t really have a succinct plan, as it were. Roc’s got t’right idea, we t’ink, wit’ him knowin’ who needs t’be taken down, but we haven’t really had a chance t’discuss it all, an’ we’re not entirely sure he gets just how serious dis whole t’ing is. Maybe save dat talk fer when we’ve all had a better night o’sleep, yeah?”

 

Once I’m back inside, I hug Doc goodnight and thank him for letting us stay so late, thanks that he waves off with a trembling hand and a pat on the back. The train ride home is subdued, everyone more than a bit lost in their own thoughts. Rocco heads straight for my spare room when we get back to the apartment, and I follow his example, heading to my bedroom without preamble. I’m undressed and unconscious before Connor and Murphy even set foot in the room.

 

Blessedly, through a combination of alcohol, exhaustion from sleepless nights, and the comfort of having both of my boys wrapped around me, for the first time in months I sleep the whole night through with absolutely no dreams whatsoever.

 

The next couple of days pass with little to no actual incidents. I follow the news obsessively, watching for any hint that someone has a clue that the guys are involved in the killing spree sweeping through Boston’s nastiest. So far, no one seems to have connected the “Saints of South Boston” with the vigilante acts, but I have a feeling it’s only a matter of time.

 

I make a couple of shopping trips around the neighborhood, though not for the clothes I know I’ll need next week. Refilling my first aid kit is priority number one for me. The guys don’t seem to have any idea when their next hit will be, but there's no telling when they might just up and decide someone’s due for killing, so I should be as ready as I can.

 

As Connor and Murphy tell me, it’s not like they have a system.

 

By unspoken mutual agreement, the boys get what few possessions they have and move them permanently to my apartment, as their flat is pretty much unlivable.

 

Well, more unlivable than it was before, even by their standards.

 

The entirety of their combined wardrobes fits into the bottom drawer of my dresser, and honestly, besides their rosaries, they don’t really have anything else. The only other change to my apartment that results in their moving in are two nails that appear in the wall over my bedside table as if by magic to serve as hangers for their rosaries.

 

I make them call their mother and give her my phone number so she can actually reach them if she needs to. They’re resistant at first (understatement), but I point out that it’s not beyond the scope of her abilities to call every number listed in Boston until she finds them. When they finally do call her, she wholeheartedly agrees with me and gives them a sound tongue lashing for not coming to that conclusion on their own.

 

By slightly less unspoken agreement, Rocco also gets some things from his and Donna’s place and semi-permanently sets up shop in my spare room. I refuse to let him go home to stay. He doesn’t get why at first until I indelicately spell out that if his bosses were cold enough to set him up at the Copley, there’s a distinct possibility they’d be willing to go after him at home.

 

I offer to talk to Donna for him, tell her she needs to find a new place for a while for her own safety, but when we go over to their apartment, her stuff is cleaned out, and it looks like no one’s been there in a couple of days. I wince at the nasty red splatter coating the wall in the dining room area, and I see that someone has ineffectually taped up a single sheet of paper.

 

“You guys are seriously some strange new hybrid of idiots and assholes,” I mutter as I hold open Rocco’s military style duffle bag.

 

He offers a conciliatory half-smile as he shoves a stack of t-shirts into the bag. “Ya ain’t wrong.”

 

Murphy steps in from another room, holding a box full of Rocco’s record collection. “What was dat?”

 

“Just commenting on all of three of you completing lacking any socially or intellectually redeeming qualities,” I sigh as Rocco stuffs another bundle of clothing into the bulging sack.

 

Murphy brushes a kiss along my jaw, and heat spreads over my face from where his lips contact my skin. Rocco shakes his head, taking the bag from me and moving to another room ostensibly to find more necessities he needs to pack, but really to not have to listen to me giggle as a result of Murphy’s attention.

 

We return from the trip with a few boxes, Rocco’s duffle bag, and a suitcase, more than both of the twins’ things combined. Connor is reclined on the couch, his feet propped comfortably on my coffee table, and I clear my throat. When he glances back, I raise an eyebrow in warning, and he immediately swings his feet to the floor as if that was what he meant to do all along.

 

“Got ye summat while th’ three of ye were out,” Connor says, leaping over the back of my sofa with no apparent effort. He pulls me into what I mistake for a hug but turns out to be an overly dramatic embrace that dips into an equally overdramatic kiss that leaves me laughing and severely overheated.

 

Rocco mutters something about never being able to escape and hurries off down the hall. Murphy follows him, grinning and telling him in great detail about all the things we’re apparently going to get up to in the apartment that he will not, in fact, be able to get away from now that they’re all basically living there.

 

I had no idea I had so much stamina. Or flexibility.

 

Connor reaches back over the sofa, lifting up a metal bar that looks to me like nothing so much as an inconvenient sort of crutch.

 

“Should I recognize that?” I ask, perplexed. I know Connor and Murphy aren’t the most traditionally romantic of boyfriends, but I still usually have more reason to expect a flower than a stick of metal from them as a present. One end of the bar has a rubber tip like the bottom of a crutch, and the top has a sort of rubber or plastic u-bend. The whole thing is about three and a half feet tall, though it looks like it could be adjusted to be longer or shorter.

 

“Tis a security bar for yer front door,” Connor explains. He holds the bar next to the door, judging the height of the handle, then fiddles with the height adjustment. He sticks the u-bend under the door knob, wedging the rubber tip end firmly into place on the floor.

 

“When yer here wit’out us, I want ye t’keep dis under yer doorknob,” he says, turning a serious face to me as if he expects protests and is ready for any arguments I might have. But I’m not mutinous, I’m only surprised.

 

“I didn’t expect that,” I say honestly, stepping up and pulling his face down to mine, “but thank you. I appreciate you thinking of me. Just don’t expect me to be too quick to get the door open the first few times you guys are out later than me. You know I can sleep through a lot if I’m of a mind to.”

 

“Don’t plan on leavin’ ye sleepin’ on yer own too much anytime soon,” Connor murmurs against my lips before sweeping me up bridal style and carrying me straight to the bedroom. He deposits me on my bed gently, then turns and steps out of the room. Before I can react to his unexpected departure, he returns with the security bar. He closes the door firmly, locking it and wedging the bar expertly under the handle.

 

“Murphy’s figured out th’trick wit’ one o’yer hair pins and dat little hole in th’doorknob,” Connor explains, ripping his shirt over his head and advancing on me with a predatory grin. “Can finally get a little privacy now.”

…

 

With three men suddenly taking up residence in my apartment, privacy is definitely in short supply. Every time I turn around one of them is in the bathroom when I need it or rooting through the fridge for something else to eat and flicking the television channels nonstop until they find the most deafening, obnoxious action movie on at the time. Even the conversations are loud and ridiculous, with the boys constantly digging at Rocco for everything from his freakout at the deli to something I refuse to ask for details about involving a passed out stripper at the Sin Bin.

 

I mean, I thought it wouldn’t be such a big deal having them all here since they practically lived here before, but apparently there’s a big difference between men spending a lot of time at your place and men having literally nowhere else to go.

 

By Wednesday morning, I am ready to be rid of all three of them, if only for a couple of hours, just to get some time to myself. I unceremoniously kick all three of them out, promising to use the security bar properly and everything.

 

“I love all of you, and I’m starting to hate the sight of your faces. Give me a few hours alone, go amuse yourselves, and then come back and pick me up around one for lunch. But seriously, go away, or I will end you.”

 

I shut the front door firmly in their bewildered faces, click the lock into place, and shove the security bar under the door knob. I slump against the door, listening to their footsteps retreat down the hallway. After a few minutes, I realize I can’t hear anything: not Murphy bickering with Connor over what channel to watch, not the shower running, not Rocco digging through the fridge. Just blessed silence that rings peacefully through my empty apartment.

 

I had no idea three days of three men living in my place would be so damned _loud_. Yeesh. I think a way-too-hot bath full of as many bath oils and epsom salts as I can get away with is called for. Shaving, exfoliating, girly things I can’t get done with three men always needing the bathroom for something.

 

Hell, I might even give myself a manicure.

 

Three-and-a-half not-long-enough hours later, there’s a knock on my front door. As I was expecting the boys, I’m pretty quick getting up, but when I glance through the peephole, all I see is Rocco. It takes me a minute to remove the security bar, but Rocco doesn’t seem impatient when I finally get the door open. In fact, he seems kind of subdued.

 

“Where are the guys?” I ask, grabbing my purse from its hook next to the door.

 

“They had some sort of errand to run, but they said they’ll meet us at the diner, might even be there before us.”

 

I meet his answer with a heavily skeptical eyebrow, and he grins suddenly. “They mean it this time. They know better than to piss you off like that again.”

 

“And they have yet to explain why they couldn’t just leave me a fucking message,” I mutter, shutting and locking the door behind us.

 

As we turn towards the stairwell, Rocco says, “They didn’t think it’d be safe to leave a message where it could be traced back to you. Hun, they’re doing most everything short of leavin’ ya altogether to keep you from being connected with what they're doing.”

 

Well, don’t I just feel like a bitch now?

 

“Of course,” he adds, being the randomly wise soul that he is, “they’ve had the whole of the last few days to tell you that themselves, so it kinda knocks off some of their brownie points.”

 

The weather is just as nice as Saturday morning, warm even, and I revel in the freedom of not having to wear my winter coat. I glance over at Rocco, intending to say as much, only to find him silent and brooding again. This time I’m not taking any chances. I stop where I am on the sidewalk, grabbing his coat by the sleeve to halt his forward progress.

 

“Okay, this time you’re going to talk to me _before_ you go off on some sort of rampage. What’s eating at you, Roc?”

 

“Are ya sure, hun? It’s to do with...y’know, this stuff that...we’ve, uh...gotten into, and I know that don't make you the most comfortable.”

 

I know he means well, but I’m serious. “Well, Roc, it’s either that or I inadvertently send you off on another killing spree. Just talk to me already. It’s not like you have to hold details back anymore, am I right?”

 

“Yeah, you got a point.” He lets out a breath, then starts walking again, and I have to skip a little to catch up with his long strides. “I’ve just been thinkin’, I’m supposed to be the guy that knows everyone, that knows who to go after and all the details and shit, but I’m havin’ a hard time thinkin’ of who would be the right one to do next. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know a shit ton of guys the world needs to be rid of, but it’s like, how do I know who to tell Connor and Murphy about first?”

 

“Well, I will freely admit this is not a problem I’ve encountered before,” I say carefully. “Try this: think of all the jobs you’ve done, all the guys you worked with, like the seriously bad ones. What was the worst thing you ever saw someone do? What about...well, there was that job you told me about a few months ago, that night you told me about the party Donna had where she and...her friend, and that guy...in your bed….Dude, are you gonna rescue me here, or let me keep talking about shit neither of us wants to rehash?”

 

I startle a laugh out of Rocco, and I’m relieved when he says, “Yeah, I know what night you’re talkin’ about.”

 

“Thank god. Anyway, the thing is, I’ve never seen you that bad except for...well, except for this last Saturday right before you, erm...gave your official resignation? Is that something you think might be worth...looking into?”

 

I mean, it’s not like I have experience helping people think of who they’re going to kill next.

 

Rocco is quiet for a few minutes, gathering his thoughts. When he does speak again, I am shocked into silence. For most of the time I’ve known Rocco, I’ve been aware that what he does for a living is not legal or even morally defendable. But it’s Rocco: he’s my friend, and he’s got a good heart, for the most part, even if his head isn’t in the right place.

 

The story he tells me finally fills in all the details he left off the night we went on our first dessert date, and to be completely honest, I’m very not sorry he didn’t tell me the details that night. A whole family, basically erased and thrown away like a bad term paper, and this...hit man, I guess, acting like he’s doing nothing more serious than taking out the garbage. If Rocco had told me all this a few months ago, I know I wouldn’t have been able to handle the details. I can barely handle them right now, even after everything I’ve been told. I don’t interrupt him or ask questions; I let Rocco talk until he’s out of words and trails off into uncomfortable silence.

 

And the whole time, we just keep walking, like we’re discussing nothing more serious than Monday morning traffic.

 

As we near the diner, I put my hand on Rocco’s arm as he reaches out to open the door for us. He glances up at me, his eyebrows knitted together, and there’s a hesitant shine in his eyes. He thinks I’m going to come down on him for what he just told me, and after the way I’ve acted the last couple of days, I don’t blame him.

 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I say simply before pulling him into a tight hug. He’s startled, stiffly and passively accepting my embrace for a moment before finally responding by squeezing me hard enough to make breathing momentarily difficult. I don’t protest, though; he needs this reassurance; of all three of them, he might even need it the most.

 

“I love you,” I say, pulling away from him finally and holding him at arm's’ length. “I can’t understand the life choices you made, but I do see that you’re trying to make up for them right now, and that you’ve always tried to not be that type of person. I know it hasn’t worked out great for you, but you’re my friend, and I will do whatever I can to help you and support you right now. And I think you need to tell Connor and Murphy what you just told me.”

 

He takes in a slow breath before nodding and pulling the door open. I step inside, Rocco on my heels, and immediately look to our usual booth. True to their word, Connor and Murphy are slouched on one side of the table. They’ve already ordered for us all, and my usual cheeseburger sits next to Rocco’s. I’m so happy to see my food already there that I don’t even care they've started without us. I wave to Becky on the way over to our booth, and she looks more than a little relieved to see me relatively back to normal.

 

One magnificent cheeseburger later, I’m finishing up my fries, and Connor and Murphy have only just begun to realize that Rocco has barely touched his food. Before they can start in on the solid teasing, I stand and nudge Rocco’s leg gently with my toe. I nod at his inquisitive glance, and I wonder if my face is as sad and serious as it feels.

 

“Tell them,” I say quietly. In the far reaches of my mind, I conjecture as to whether I’m going to regret prompting him, but in the end, that’s the role he’s accepted in this endeavor. He is the source of information, so he needs to inform them.

 

I turn and head towards the bathroom; just as I open the bathroom door, I hear Rocco say, “All right, let’s talk some business here. I know a sick fuck who makes the ones we been doin’ look like altar boys.”

 

The restroom door swings shut, and I slide the lock into place before leaning over the sink, resting my forehead on the cool mirror.  I need a moment to myself to think about what I’ve just done. I pull back a few inches, my eyes sweeping over the image before me. In the fluorescent light of the tiny bathroom, I stare at my pale, washed out reflection, searching my face for answers I don’t have.

 

Why did I feel the need to get involved just now? Why did I prompt Rocco? I mean, he probably would have come to the same conclusion on his own eventually, but this is real, this is dangerous shit, and I’ve just encouraged them to go kill someone else. There's no way Connor and Murphy won’t go after this guy. He is the epitome of everything they're out to rid the world of.

 

So why am I upset that I opened my mouth and got involved?

 

Shaking my head, I turn on the tap and splash some shockingly cold water on my face. I scrub hard with a paper towel, trying to bring some order to my scrambled thoughts, and glance up to meet my own troubled eyes in the mirror again.

 

Why did I speak up? Because they’re going to do this anyway, and if I can help, I will. That's the best answer I can come up with at the moment. Maybe I’ll get more insight into my motivation later.

 

Sighing, I return to the table to find the three of them discussing details and specifics of this guy’s habits and his family’s routine. The fact that he has a family shakes me hard for a minute, and I almost miss the bench as I sit down. I mean, I only know of one of the jobs this hit man has done, and I’m already seeing him as this horrible monster from my nightmares, and now…

 

Now I know he has a wife and a little boy who might even miss him when he’s gone. How can you justify killing someone, knowing that his family will go through hell afterwards. But how do you balance out his family’s pain against the pain of all his victims’ families?

 

“Can we maybe walk while you guys talk about this?” I ask suddenly. “I need some air.”

 

Maybe it’s the wobbly tone of my voice or the familiar shade of green I’m sure I’ve turned, but no one argues and no one teases me as I rise and make my way to the register. Murphy puts an arm around my shoulders, leading me outside as Connor settles our bill. We get a few feet away from the door, out of the way of the major sidewalk traffic, before Murphy turns me to face him. His eyes are concerned but neutral, and I know what he’s thinking.

 

“I promise I’m okay. I’m not going to interfere with or object to what you guys have to do. I just...knowing this guy has a family and all, it threw me. A lot. Sometimes I forget that monsters have families, too.”

 

As always, honesty is the best policy with Murphy. He nods slowly, understanding washing over his features.

 

“Y’know we ain’t gonna hurt his wife an’ kid, aye?”

 

“Jesus, Murphy, why would you even think you needed to say that to me?” I’m hurt he thinks he needs to remind me of that. I know they would never hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it, and the fact that he thinks he needs to tell me pisses me off way more than it probably should.

 

I shrug his hands from my shoulders and turn sharply, striding down the sidewalk, not one hundred percent sure why I reacted so badly. He catches up with me easily, but for several minutes he just keeps pace next to me, silently letting me work through my tangled web of thoughts. When he does finally speak, his words are quiet and measured, and I can tell he’s been working on them the whole time we've been walking, maybe longer.

 

“Maybe...because I need t’remind myself. So I can hear who we ain’t hurtin’ ‘stead o’just who we’re killin’.”

 

Every time one of them pisses me off, every time I start to think I can’t handle this whole situation, one of them says something that catches me completely off guard and reminds me why I’m  with them.

 

Wordlessly, I reach over and slip my arm around his waist, pulling him tight to my side as he drapes his arm around my shoulder again.

 

“Period of adjustment,” I finally say by way of apology as he holds open the door of my apartment building for me. “Thank you for being patient with me.”

 

I meet his eyes as I step past him through the doorway, and he gives me a tired half-smile. He doesn’t seem to have a smirk in him today, which hurts my heart just a little bit. I glance past him to see Connor and Rocco about halfway down the block, deep in conversation as they walk towards us, most likely planning for this coming Saturday.

 

I have a sudden mischievous thought and throw Murphy a conspiratorial smirk. If he can’t muster one up, I’ll be happy to show him mine. He raises an eyebrow questioningly and waits, still holding the door open.

 

“Wanna beat them up to the apartment and pay Connor back for his stunt with the security bar in my bedroom yesterday?”

 

Murphy, ever the gentleman, treats me to a firsthand reenactment of fireman’s carry he used to get Connor out of the alley, and we make it up to the apartment in under a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. If you like what you're seeing, please take a second to leave a though on the way out.


	14. Chapter 14

I get more than one opportunity to use my new security bar over the next couple of days, as the twins and Rocco are constantly out, getting supplies and making plans and other things they don’t entirely spell out for me. My desire to know every single detail has unsurprisingly dried up since...well, since learning every detail of their first set of misadventures, so I’m content enough to let them go about their planning without telling me every gritty step of their plans. They come back Thursday afternoon with a bulging black sports bag, and I watch, partly horrified and partly fascinated by the piles of ammunition and guns they lay out on the kitchen table.

 

“Where were you guys keeping all of this?” I ask as Murphy passes two handguns to Rocco.

 

“Stashed it down at Doc’s place, but we had t’stop off with th’dealer fella to restock on some t’ings,” Connor answers. He’s doing something to a switch on one side of the gun that makes the top of the barrel slide up and off. He continues disassembling his gun as Murphy speaks up.

 

“Had t’go seem ‘im a few times over th’last week. Spent part o’Saturday gettin’ Roc some new guns. ‘Couldn’t have ‘im goin’ in wit’ dat fuckin’ six-shooter again,” Murphy grins, glancing up from his work. Rocco grumbles something unintelligible but doesn’t otherwise respond as he starts going over his weapons. I stare at the piles of ammunition boxes and things I can’t even begin to recognize stacked all over my table, and I frown, a little confused.

 

“Let me start by saying I don’t know what some of this stuff is, and I fully recognize my ignorance, but isn’t this a lot of supplies for one hit? I mean, you said there would be, what, like six or seven guys at the game? Are you thinking more will drop by before you’re finished, or are you just stocking up so you won’t have to visit your dealer so much?”

 

Murphy continues to busy himself with whatever he’s doing to his gun, taking it apart to clean it, I assume based on the few movies I’ve seen in this genre. Rocco clears his throat, glancing at Connor, who looks up at me slowly as if he’s about to deliver some bad news.

 

“Tis more than we need fer th’Saturday job. We’ve got somethin’ planned fer Sunday, as well.”

 

“And you were going to tell me when?” I ask, perplexed. I’ve handled not being in on all the details pretty well so far, now that I know what having all the details actually entails. However, that doesn’t mean they should keep something as huge as a whole other job from me. I mean, they did the same routine this past weekend, a hit on Friday night and another on Saturday, so it’s not exactly a new thing. I swim up from my internal monologue to realize they aren’t answering my question.

 

“So...are you going to tell me about Sunday?”

 

“Tis going t’be a bigger job than what we’ve done so far,” Connor finally says, his eyes steadily focused on mine. I start to reply and find that I don’t have any words. Something tells me to just listen, so I close my mouth as Connor returns to work oiling the weapon in his hands. At least, I think that’s what he’s doing, based on the label on the little bottle he’s been using.

 

“Do you want me to keep guessing, or can you just give me the gist of it?” I ask, feeling the edges of my patience start to fray. They’re holding something back, and I’m not having any of that bullshit again. It’s one thing to hold back details of plans and locations and whatnot, but they’re deliberately keeping the focus of this job from me.

 

“We’re gonna take down my boss,” Rocco finally says, his face uncharacteristically grave. “Figured with all those heavy hitters we’re takin’ down Saturday, he won’t have time to call in any major reinforcements. A lot of his guys are pretty far outta town right now, so we should take advantage of that before he calls ‘em all back in. Gonna hit ‘im at home, he won’t expect that.”

 

“So...okay, yeah, that’s big. I...should I be…” I trail off, my eyebrows drawing together. Any question I can think of right now, I pretty much know the answer to. Do they have to do this? Well, yeah, it’s what they do. Will it be dangerous? Duh. Should I be worried?

 

I’d be dead or insane not to be.

 

“I guess...um...let me know if I can...help with anything, then.” Realizing I have literally nothing to add to the conversation or their current occupation, I wander back to my bedroom, wishing I was one of those people who has a nifty hobby to take my mind off the current situation.

 

Thursday passes in an agonizingly slow blur. The boys spend a couple of hours getting their gear together, then several more grilling Rocco for details on both of their targets’ houses and habits. By this point, I’ve grown more than sick of the daytime television offerings and have started listening to their discussion, despite my lack of desire for actual details.

 

“So we can wait outside in the car for the kid to leave,” Rocco is explaining. A thought occurs to me, and I feel like I should speak up, but I don’t want to interrupt and mess up their line of thought. Inexplicably, this results in me hesitantly raising my hand like I’m in a classroom waiting to be called on. All three of the guys glance at me, eyebrows raised, and Connor opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, clearly confused.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to...I just thought...well, Roc, you drove this guy around before, and he works for your boss, so we know that he knows you. I know you’ll have a mask on, but won’t he recognize your car?”

 

I can see the confusion on their faces transform to understanding and then something else I can’t quite place. Are they...impressed? They share a glance, then Murphy nods at me.

 

“Aye. We’ll stop by somewhere later on t’night an’ see about gettin’ somethin’ different. Good point, lass.”

 

I start to ask how they’re just going to get a completely different car somewhere when I remember their case full of cash they told me about. I guess they won’t have any issues getting supplies for at least a while. Or maybe they will. There’s no telling what guns cost when you’re getting them from an illegal arms dealer in a basement in South Boston.

 

Just as I’m realizing I need a strong dose of normalcy right about now, the phone rings. I answer it quickly, feeling a rush of relief when I hear Jen on the other end.

 

“Hey, wanna go shopping Saturday?” Straight to the point.

 

“Wha-. I mean, sure. How did you know I haven’t gone yet?” I’m impressed and surprised. I knew Jen and I were getting closer, but I didn’t know she knew me that well yet.

 

“Because you’ve been gone for two months and you had some hot Irishness waiting for you when you got back. If I were in your place, I wouldn’t have even left the apartment for food until I was on the verge of starvation.”

 

“I won’t say you _don’t_ have a point,” I concede grudgingly, glancing over at the hushed conference that continues at my kitchen table. “I think going out Saturday would be great. Want to meet earlyish then have lunch?”

 

“Sure,” she answers quickly, and there’s a brief pause where I hear someone speaking to Jen in the background. “I gotta run, another fire to put out. Meet me out front of my place at nine?”

 

I confirm the time, then let Jen head off to whatever emergency has claimed her attention. I glance around the apartment again, suddenly extremely restless. I need to get out, to move around, to do something that isn’t sitting here and fretting.

 

“Are you guys able to spare anyone from your planning at this stage? I want to borrow someone, and I’m not partial at the moment. I’ve just gotta get out of here or my head will explode.” To my surprise, it’s Rocco who speaks up first.

 

“Well, hun, I’ve told these guys everything I know at this point, and it _is_ Thursday. If we leave soon we can make it for the first batch.”

 

I can feel my face light up, and I practically leap off the sofa. In all the insanity that’s ensued over the last few days, I completely forgot about our standing date at the dessert place.

 

“I’ll be ready in five minutes!”

 

Connor and Murphy glance between Rocco and me, torn between amusement and bewilderment.

 

“Ye been datin’ our girl on t’sly, dere, Roc?” Murphy says, his posture vaguely intimidating. I roll my eyes and dash to my bedroom, changing out of my lounging sweats for jeans and a button up and shoving my feet into the nearest pair of flats. I’m out of the bedroom in less time than it takes Connor and Murphy to get in a couple of good jabs at Rocco. I toss on a light khaki jacket, sling my purse over my shoulder, and drag Rocco out the door.

 

“See you boys later,” I smile at the twins, who both open their mouths to say something. I shut and lock the door before they can even get up from the table. “I swear, I sigh to Rocco exasperatedly, “We’ve been doing this every Thursday since, what…December? November? I mean, except for when I was gone, it was a weekly thing. How the hell do they always manage to forget this?”

 

Twenty minutes later sees Rocco and me at the little Italian place, and my favorite waiter places a huge, fresh, steaming platter of pignolata in front of us with a flourish. My eyes widen in shock at the size of the monstrous dessert, and I turn an incredulous stare on Mario.

 

“Either I’ve been gone _way_ too long, or you’ve been holding out on me, sir.”

 

He grins, handing me a fork as Rocco digs in, inevitably burning his fingers as he’s done every other time we’ve come here since he first brought me.

 

“We missed you while you were gone. Had to put up with this idiot moping and lonely every friggin’ week. Plus, we didn’t want you to go thinking any of those fancy New York places were better than what you get here. Welcome home, sweetheart.”

 

Blushing faintly, I return his smile and eagerly dig in. “You’re a saint, Mario.”

 

I knew the moment I saw the extra portions on the plate that I’d need to take some of this home, and sure enough both Rocco and I reach our saturation point about halfway through the mountainous confection.

 

“Some pretty heavy stuff we’ve got planned this weekend,” Rocco says abruptly as I put my fork down on the table. I’m not sure how he knows I’m a quivering, anxious mess inside, but this is Rocco, and I suppose he’s just having one of those rare intuitive moments he’s prone to. Or he’s just seen me pacing anxiously around my apartment all day.

 

“I’m freaking out,” I say quietly, not meeting his eyes. “After that dream I had, and Connor’s wrists being messed up, and him jumping off a freaking building, and Murphy almost being shot in an alley, and you being sent to...and all this killing, and...Rocco, I’m trying. I’m trying so hard, I swear.”

 

“They know you are. We all are, hun. You think I didn’t go a little batshit when I saw what they’d done in that hotel room? Maybe not for all the same reasons as you,” he adds, holding his hands up defensively against my incredulous look, “but it was still a lot of shit to take in.”

 

“How bad will this weekend be?” And since this is Rocco, he knows what I’m really asking is “How worried should I be?”

 

“This is a bad dude,” Rocco understates, shredding his napkin strip by strip. “One of the worst I’ve ever seen. But they won’t be expecting us, so there won’t be much to go up against at his house.” He stops talking for a moment, visibly debating whether to continue.

 

“And at your boss’s house?”

 

“By the time we get there Sunday night, Papa Joe will know what we did the day before, but he’ll lose a lot of his heavy hitters on Saturday, and he won’t think we got the balls to come after him so soon; element of surprise sorta shit, is what Connor says. It won’t be a piece of cake or anything, but...Look, Grace, I know you’re gonna worry no matter what I tell ya. The boys know what they’re doin’; you said it was luck they got all them guys at the Copley, but sweetie, it took a shit ton of skill, too, and don’t you fuckin’ dare tell those assholes I said so. Plus, I know these guys we’re goin’ after. We’re about as ready as we can be.”

 

“I know, Roc, and I appreciate you’re trying to make me feel better, I really do. I guess one of the things that’s really bothering me is that we’re all just accepting the boys’ dream as the way things are. They have a calling, this is what they’re meant to be doing. And I get it. You can’t ignore a message like that.” I stop for a moment, fitting my scattered thoughts together as best I can. I haven’t been able to put proper words to this thought before now. I frown, determined to finally get it out before it eludes me again.

 

“But I had a message, too, a blood-soaked, horror movie of a warning, and we’re basically ignoring everything I saw, pretending like I didn’t see you all...hurt. I don’t understand how we can accept one message if we’re going to blatantly push the other to the side. I just...I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

 

After a couple of minutes of heavy silence at the table, Mario comes back to box up our leftovers and waves off my attempt to pay.

 

“On the house, sweetheart. Come back to see me again soon.”

 

It’s a nice night out; the pleasant weather streak has continued with clear days and tolerably cool nights. Rocco has his hands shoved in the pockets of his overcoat, for once abstaining from lighting up the second we get outside. We’re about a block away from the restaurant when he speaks. His eyes are glued to the sidewalk in front of him, so I can’t really make out his expression.

 

“I can’t talk for Connor and Murphy. I’m not ignoring what you told us; I don’t think I could ignore that kind of warning if I tried. It’s more like...for the first time in my life, I’m actually useful, actually doing something good. Maybe even helping or saving some people down the road, y’know? I’m gonna have to pay for that eventually, I know, but I can’t stop just because there’s a chance I’ll get hurt. Ever since high school I’ve been walkin’ around with at least one grim reaper hangin’ over my shoulder. Comes with the job. But now-”

 

“I get it,” I interrupt quietly. Rocco has been growing more and more uncomfortable the longer he talks, and the relief on his face when I cut him off is almost palpable. And I do understand what he’s trying to tell me. They all know the risks, they completely understood what I told them, and they’re choosing to do this anyway. Because they believe it’s the right thing to do, and as much as I want to, I can’t argue with them.

 

Just as I’m about to open my mouth to say something, anything at all to clear the air, Rocco adds one last thing to the conversation.

 

“It’s just easier for me to keep goin’ an kinda forget what’s most likely comin’. I can’t really put it better than that.”

 

I...can’t, either.

 

“So did you guys ever hear what’s going to happen with McGinty’s after all that mess with the Russians? I forgot to ask Doc when we were in there Sunday night.”

 

The abrupt change of subject is exactly what we need to break the tension, and Rocco is off on a long-winded recounting of the Russians’ decision to sign the deed of the bar over to Doc permanently and in full. As we walk up to the front door of my building, Rocco is just finishing up his story.

 

“So, we figure they decided after they sent those assholes to rough up Doc and not only did two of ‘em end up dead, but most of their important dudes in Southie did, too, plus that high-up guy that flew in, that Doc must have some pretty big connections they didn’t know about. Figured it wasn’t worth messing with someone who may or may not have gotten almost a dozen of their best dudes killed, so they should just leave ‘im alone.”

 

As Rocco reaches out to open the door to the building, I have a sudden irresistible impulse, and to both of our surprises, I throw my arms around his waist and squeeze him for all I’m worth. He lets out a startled grunt of discomfort before realizing he should return the gesture. I press my cheek to the center of his chest, my eyes shut tight, listening to the reassuringly alive sound of his beating heart. For just a second, Rocco’s arms tighten hard around me, returning the hug just as desperately.

 

I take a long time to let go, forcing myself to not think why we’re both acting this way, and finally pull away from my friend, turning and walking into the building without a word about the strange little interlude.

 

Halfway up the stairs, I waggle the box of leftover dessert in Rocco’s direction.

 

“Think you can hide this in your coat well enough that we can get it into the back of the fridge without Connor or Murphy seeing it?”

 

So we talk and joke and laugh the rest of the climb up to my apartment, neither of us commenting on the tears that just won’t seem to stop leaking from the corners of my eyes or Rocco’s need to clear his throat several times.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know where to start with this note. Let me just recap my last couple of weeks:  
> \- I was rear-ended (I'm physically fine) on 9/24 (outside an Arby's; dude, I just wanted a turkey, bacon, ranch minus the bacon with some mozzies, y'know?), and I'm still dealing with rental car and repairs more than two weeks later (and still not getting car back until potentially end of upcoming week or beginning of next). I'm super lucky, thought. There were three cars involved, with me in front. The car behind me stopped in plenty of time, but the car behind them did not, and shoved them into and under my vehicle. Result: scratches and rough dents with a semi-broken tail-pipe on my Escape, scratches and light dents on the Tacoma in the back, and a new life as an autmobilic accordion for the Corolla in the middle.  
> \- Wake up to minor leak last Friday (9/30) that within an hour escalates to my 1st floor apartment raining. Long story VERY short, my apartment flooded, and we were shunted into a vacant apartment way too small for our little family (and very reluctantly done so by our apartment complex, who assured us the problem could be fixed by that night). Eventually managed to convince them to come down to flooded apartment to prove it wasn't going to be livable (we're talking carpets ruined, floors ruined, ceiling LITERALLY falling in, ceiling light globes full of water, full inch of standing water around most of the apartment) in just a week or so, so they again reluctantly agreed to get us into a new apartment but then showed their assholes again by giving us a day to get out of the vacant apartment we'd spent the weekend moving things into and less than a week to get everything out of our old apartment and absolutely refusing to do anything in the way of expenses or labor help to get us out despite it being THEIR faulty plumbing that ruined the damn apartment and made us have to move out in the first fucking place. So we spent yesterday and today, with the help of some wonderful friends, tossing out all sorts of ruined things and moving up to our new apartment. Everything is mostly settled. Mostly.  
> \- In the midst of all this hilarity, my stomach decides to put in a transfer out of my body, then proceeds to engage in hostile work environment tactics when said transfer was turned down. I've already been waking up at least five times a night for the last month, so to wake up every morning this week with either raging stomach pain, raging nausea, or both, was SUPER fun.  
> So, in short, it's been a fucked up two weeks, and it's mostly almost dealt with, and I'm so fucking tired, but at least it's not raining in my apartment anymore. Hence why I haven't posted in so long. Also, in about a week, my mother-in-law is coming to get the Grumpasaurus Rex and take him home with her for about three weeks. Translation: no toddler at home for a bit means more time to work on the story. Thank you so much for sticking with me, guys, it's been so rough the last couple of weeks. Your comments are going a long ways towards making me feel better. Seriously, thank you for reading.


	15. Chapter 15

Friday is one of the longest days of my life. The apartment is so tense that everyone leaves at least twice throughout the day just to get away from the strangling atmosphere. Ironically, most of the tension is coming from me, the only one not throwing myself into mortal peril this weekend. I am absolutely and totally terrified, but I refuse to say anything that would seem like I’m trying to talk them out of going.

 

This resolution mostly results in me starting and not finishing a lot of sentences.

 

I spend the better part of the morning pacing around, restlessly straightening furniture that’s already straight, cleaning out a spotless fridge, and dusting things that haven’t been in place long enough to have gathered any dust. Eventually, I collapse on one end of the couch, staring determinedly at a spot on the carpet a few feet away, wishing again that I had some sort of hobby I could lose my brain in right now.

 

After my third round of manic cleaning (every linen in my apartment is washed, pressed, and folded, every window is sparkling, and the bathroom now smells enchantingly of chemical pine), Murphy and Connor glance at each other, exasperation written clearly across their features.

“Lass, wouldja like t’go fer a walk?” Connor asks before I can comment on their expressions. I start to protest that I’m fine, but I stop when I realize I am exactly the opposite of fine.

 

“God, yes. Please get me out of here before I clean this place to death.”

 

The streets in my neighborhood are strangely deserted for a Friday afternoon. I figure most everyone is waiting until later in the evening to go out, but it feels more like the city is holding its breath, waiting for tomorrow just as anxiously as I am. Connor and I walk side by side, not speaking or touching, but I don’t have to ask where we’re going.

 

Sure enough, we wind up in the same park where he and Murphy and I first talked after three weeks of near silent treatment back in December. The trees are starting to get their leaves back, so there’s a mist of green canopied over the skeletally bare trunks. Connor leads me to the same picnic table where we talked, three months ago almost to the day. Knowing Connor, he chose this location deliberately to make me feel more at ease and less worried.

 

Once we’re sitting on the same bench, facing each other with our knees touching, Connor waits for me to speak. I just can’t, though. I can’t dump my insecurities on him; he is doing something huge tomorrow, something that is literally deadly, and the last thing I want to do is distract him by having him concerned over me. I shake my head in resignation, refusing to put voice to my fears.

 

“Ain’t fair t’leave me in th’dark. Ye can’t keep givin’ me th’ start’n stop conversational treatment.”

“Just you watch me,” I mutter mutinously, looking away. If I stare at him for too long, I know he can get me to say pretty much anything, but I have to stay strong for them. I mean, it’s not like I’m the one risking my life. Instead of looking at him, I stare down at our touching knees, examining the small rips and frays in the fabric of his jeans like they are the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen.

 

“Tis a pleasure t’watch ye most o’th’time, but not when somethin’s eatin’ so hard at ye. I know yer anxious about t’morra, would honestly be worried ‘bout ye or hurt if ye weren’t. Is dat why y’won’t talk to us an’ yer dashin’ about yer place like a mad janitor?”

 

I nod, still refusing to talk. I trace the jagged path of a snagged thread in his jeans that runs along the middle of his thigh, my eyebrows knitting together as I concentrate on the tiny, worn path with all my might.

 

“Won’t lie t’ye, ‘tis a mad, dangerous t’ing we’re doin,’ both Saturday an’ Sunday. Do ye...have any thoughts on our plans? Somethin’ we haven’t thought of, an angle we mighta missed?”

There’s a different tone in his voice than I’ve heard before; it’s uncertain, but also something else. I can’t help myself; I finally give in and look up. There’s an expression on his face that I would classify as indecisive if it were on anyone except Connor. Connor makes plans; Connor makes decisions. Connor powers along and somehow always bulldozes his way through whatever obstacle presents itself.

 

Connor doesn’t do indecisive.

 

“Do you think I’ve thought of something that I’m holding back from you?” I ask curiously.

He shakes his head, and I see in his eyes he’s not lying, but he still doesn’t look reassured. I can’t for the life of me figure out why he would think I know something he doesn’t, seeing as how he’s been planning with Rocco for the last few days, and then it hits me.

 

“I haven’t had any more dreams, Connor,” I say softly, touching my fingers gently to his wrists. Despite the wounds being little more than a week old, they look miraculously healed, weeks better instead of just days. “I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow any more than you do. Of course I’m worried about all three of you. Every time you go out to do this, I’m going to agonize that this is the time you three come back to me full of holes or even don’t come-”

 

I won’t finish the sentence aloud.

 

I clear my throat, focusing my gaze at a distant point over Connor’s right shoulder. A breeze sweeps between us, tossing my hair in a few different directions, and a stray tress flutters straight across my mouth. Before I can move it away, Connor gently pulls the strand down and tucks it behind my ear. His thumb lingers on my jaw, running delicately down the side of my face and around to my chin. He tilts my head up so my eyes are forced to meet his.

 

“We’re comin’ back. Ye said t’always come back t’ye, so dat’s what we’re gonna do. Ye believe me?”

 

“I believe _you_ , Connor. I just don’t trust the universe.” And I realize now that I don’t, that I haven’t really for most, if not all, of my life. For as long as I can remember, people leave me; it’s what people do. And even though I know Connor and Murphy aren’t like anyone else I’ve ever met, why should the universe abruptly decide to be generous? I mean, if the two people I’ve loved more than anyone else suddenly take up guns to become vigilante killers, what are the odds of them lasting very long?

 

“Ye can’t go around yer entire life believin’ what ye love is gonna be snatched away, darlin’,” he murmurs, running his thumb softly over my cheek. “Tis a terrible way t’see th’world. It’ll eat at ye til dere’s naught left.”

 

“Can you promise me none of you will die?” I ask challengingly, my eyes hard as I gaze steadily back at him. “Can you promise me things that are beyond your control?”

 

For a moment, I think he’s angry with me. His lips are set in a thin, hard line, and his eyebrows are low. A muscle in his jaw works agitatedly, and he starts to speak, but suddenly, I can’t hear what he has to say. My fingers fly up, covering his mouth, and Connor’s eyes widen with astonishment.

 

“Don’t,” I whisper, struggling to get the word out. “You’re either going to lie to reassure me or tell me something I can’t handle hearing right now. Either way, just don’t.”

 

After a silent, tense moment, he nods and leans forward until his cheek is resting on my shoulder. He buries his face in the crook of my neck as I press my cheek to the top of his head.

 

“I love you,” I murmur as Connor’s arms circle my waist. “Let’s just leave it at that for now. I love you, I love your brother, I love all three of you assholes. Don’t make me promises you can’t keep. Just try your best to come back to me. Do what you have to do, and try to come back to me.”

 

I drop my head to Connor’s far shoulder, mirroring his position, and he pulls me forward until I’m straddling him on the bench. My loose hair settles around us, warm and thick against the suddenly chill breeze. In this huddled arrangement, the sounds of Boston are muffled. With my eyes closed, I can almost imagine it’s just the two of us, alone in the middle of the park, alone in the middle of the city.

 

I wish that were all either of us needed.

 

It’s Connor who finally breaks the silence, his lips pressed against the side of my neck, sending shivers down my spine as they move over the skin below my ear.

 

“I’ll always love ye. I’ll always try t’come back t’ye. I c’n promise ye dat.”

 

We sit, frozen in that position, just holding each other until the sun goes down.

...

 

“Never did tell ye ‘bout th’first time I saw ye, did I?”

 

Murphy lies on his stomach next to me, his head pillowed on his folded arms as he watches me slide onto the bed beside him. The apartment is blessedly quiet, Connor and Rocco having gone out who knows where. I’m stripped down to a camisole and my panties, and Murphy is down to his boxers. It’s nice to be down to the bare essentials after a severely cold winter.

I stretch out on my side, pressing a kiss to his forehead before straightening a little to look down the lovely expanse that is Murphy’s bare back. I don’t get this view as often as I’d like, so I’m determined to enjoy the scenery while I can. Unfortunately, my view is currently partially obstructed.

 

“Take off your boxers, lay back down exactly like you are, and then tell me,” I order. Smirking, Murphy quickly does as he’s told. Before he starts speaking, I reach across the broad expanse of his shoulders and place the tip of my finger at the top of one of his tattoos, the upper figure in a pair of winged demons, tracing the outline lightly with my fingernail.

 

“Considering your religious affiliations, I’ve always thought this one was a rather interesting choice of ink,” I murmur, leaning in for a closer look. My camisole-covered breasts brush lightly over his back, and I have a moment of forgivable smugness as Murphy shivers beneath me.

 

“T’ought ye’d figured ‘em out by now, lass. Dem’s me an’ Connor from Ma’s perspective. Got ‘em special for her a year before we left, birt’day present as it were. Best present I ever got her, she said. Only time she didn’t rain down God’s wrath on me fer gettin’ a tattoo.”

 

“But Connor doesn’t have these,” I point out. “All your other ink is pretty identical. Or, at least, coordinated.”

 

“He didn’t favor ‘em, chose t’get Ma some other nonsense like perfume or such. I’ll let ye guess who was th’fav’rite dat night.” For once, his smirk isn’t at my expense, and I’m able to fully enjoy the expression without the usual added embarrassment.

 

“So, you were saying about the first night you saw me? It was the night I came in to McGinty’s with Connor, that I finally...er...spoke to him on the train?”

 

The slight crinkling of skin around his eyes lets me know Murphy didn’t miss my substitution. In the dim light of my bedroom, his eyes have become those dark pools that never fail to mesmerize me. Even in the stillness of the otherwise empty apartment, his words are soft and intimately low, pitched only for me to hear.

 

“Aye, dat was th’first time, but t’ing is, fer weeks b’fore dat, months even, I’d been feelin’ restless. Can’t explain it better’n dat except t’say I was waitin’ fer somethin’. Like, somethin’ was about t’happen an’ I needed t’get ready fer it, ‘cept I didn’t know what it was or what t’do. I’d been really edgy that week, an’ dat night I came near to poundin’ on Roc five or six times fer whinin’ about his job. And den Connor came in, and dere ye were, an’ it was like all th’air was gone from th’room.”

 

He stops talking, and I can feel his gaze on me as I continue to trace the ink on his back, moving down to the lower demon. When he finally begins his story again, his voice is hushed and a little deeper than normal, and each word weighs with the heaviness of his deliberation.

 

“Second I saw ye, only thought in me head was _dis is what I’ve been waitin’ for_. Didn’t even need t’hear ye speak or know yer name. Hit me outta nowhere, an’ I went around fer weeks barely able to say anythin’ around ye beyond just takin’ th’piss outta Connor a bit. When ye blushed dat first time in th’bar, th’ t’ings ye did t’me, Grace. Took me weeks t’admit t’meself how I really felt, you bein’ Connor’s girl an’ all. Took a helluva lot longer fer me t’admit it t’him.”

I relax my fingers and slide my hand across his back, savoring the feel of his warm skin under my fingertips, before resting it on Murphy’s shoulder closest to me. I lean back against my pillows so I can see his face better.

 

“You two have _definitely_ never told me that story. How did that conversation go?” I’m curious. Murphy has always been open with me, straightforward for the most part, but the private conversations between him and Connor are something I’ve not been privy to much before.

 

“Had a black eye fer a few weeks after, but I managed t’convince him t’let me try t’show ye dat maybe t’three of us could work summat out. He agreed after sulkin’ over it fer a few hours, an’ dat’s when he started leavin’ ye alone wit’ me a bit, lettin’ ye get t’know me slow-like. Said if I fucked up an’ scared ye off he’d never fergive me for it.”

 

I brush my fingers absently over his the back of his neck, frowning as I think back.

 

“I remember that black eye. You told me you got it fighting over a girl. I always assumed you got in a fight with someone at McGinty’s. I’d ask why you never told me, but we both know why you didn’t, so that’s okay. Since you’re in a storytelling mood, let me ask you a question.”

 

“Anyt’in’, lass.”

 

I sweep the hair gently back and forth across his forehead, pushing it first to the left, then the right, avoiding looking directly in his eyes for the moment. “I’ve just...I’ve been curious about when you knew for sure that you loved me. It took me so long to tell both of you, and I couldn’t even tell you until you said it to me first. So I just...wondered when you knew.”

 

He reaches up, lightly gripping my wrist and stilling my hand before pulling my fingers down to his lips as he rolls to his side. He kisses the tips of my outstretched fingers before resting them over his heart.

 

“Knew from dat first moment ye walked in McGinty’s you were somethin’ I’d been waitin’ for fer a long time, maybe even me whole life. But th’moment I knew I couldn’t be wit’out ye was th’night I waited outside yer place wit’ th’Chinese, the night ye spilled th’beer.”

 

I can’t help the incredulous laugh that bubbles up. “ _That_ night? What in the world happened that night to make you realize I was the one? I mean, don’t get me wrong, the sex in the kitchen was phenomenal, but-”

 

“Weren’t th’sex, Grace,” he interrupts quietly. His face is completely serious, and I can feel the smile fading from mine. He draws his thumb delicately down my cheek to the corner of my mouth, pausing there as he searches my face for something.

 

“Twas everythin’ ‘bout ye dat night. How worn out ye were from throwin’ so much o’yerself inta yer work, how grateful ye were over a measly bag o’take-out an’ a little company. T’ought t’meself, _‘I could take care of dis girl. I could make sure she’s not ever dis worn out or hungry or lonely again_.’ And den when ye were goin’ down on me an’ I was in th’middle of knowin’ what Heaven must be like, an’ ye stopped t’clean up dat fuckin’ beer, an’ ye had’ yer bare ass stickin’ up in th’air…”

 

He grins suddenly, one of those infrequent smiles I love so much, and his face is alight with the memory.

 

“Watchin’ yer ridiculous self, cleanin’ dat shit up in th’middle of what we were doin’, dat was when I realized I didn’t just _want_ ye an’ all yer foolishness; I _needed_ ye, th’whole package. An’ not just then but fer th’rest of me life. Took me a minute t’process what I was thinkin’, it being new territory an’ all. By th’time I figured it out, ye were in th’kitchen, spoutin’ some nonsense about washin’ yer hands an’ makin’ it up t’me, so I figured I’d better let ye know how much I felt before ye got too far away. Mighta been a little overzealous in showin’ ye, but I wanted t’make sure ye got my point.”

 

And boy, did I ever get it. My face heats up and my hip bones actually ache just a little at the memory of how thoroughly he told me he needed me that night.

 

My hand smooths over his cheek before I even realize I’ve reached out, and I pull his face to mine, meeting his lips with soft, brief kisses. Murphy’s eyes slide shut, and he takes in a slow, deep breath through his nose before threading his fingers into my hair and pulling my mouth more securely against his.

 

When he finally releases me from the kiss, his face is flushed, and I can’t tell if the pounding in my ears is his heartbeat or mine.

 

“I ain’t gonna lie an’ say I ain’t nervous about t’morra, an’ I don’t want ye t’worry, but I know ye can’t help it. Ye know we gotta do dis, I know yer gonna worry, an’ I don’t know if dere’s anythin’ I can do t’help ye.”

 

“You’re going with your brother and best friend into a literal gunfight, and you’re worried about how I’m going to be?” My expression must be much more incredulous than I think because Murphy snorts and stifles a laugh, pulling me down against his chest as he rolls onto his back. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, pressing his lips against my forehead.

 

“This whole situation is insane,” I mutter for what feels like the hundredth time. “And you’re all crazy for doing this.”

 

“Aye, girl, crazy as dey come.”

 

I squirm on top of Murphy, grumbling discontentedly, and I feel the rumble of a chuckle coming from deep in his chest.

 

“Ye keep dat up, we won’t be doin’ much more talkin’, girl.”

 

I slip my arms to the mattress by his sides, pushing myself up until I’m straddling him and resting my hands on his lower belly. I must look more worried than I think I do because Murphy takes my hands firmly in his, squeezing them reassuringly as he brings my knuckles to his lips.

 

“Promise I’ll look after t’others for ye an’ bring ‘em back to ye safe’n’sound. Don’t fret over us, lass. Not when dere’s so many ot’er pleasant t’ings t’think about.” To emphasize his point, he lifts his hips underneath me, demonstrating just how pleasant some of those other thing can be. My breath catches in my throat in a whispered exhalation that resembles Murphy’s name in a way that is far too encouraging for his ego.

 

“R’member th’first time I was inside ye, Grace?” he murmurs, his fingers moving to my knees, the heat of his hands sinking down to my bones. “How ye let go fer me an’ were all brave an’ wanton, askin’ me t’touch ye an’ ridin’ me so good?” His fingers slide up my thighs, streaks of fire on my cool skin, and I close my eyes as a lazy smile spreads over my face. I roll my hips backwards, pressing against Murphy’s growing erection, the fabric of my underwear sliding over his hardening cock, and I shiver as Murphy’s groan reverberates up from beneath me.

 

“Can ye...do dat again, lass, only...dis time wit’ nothin’ between us? Wanna feel every bit of ye t’night. T’ink dere’s a couple o’areas I haven’t quite memorized yet, need t’study up.”

 

A moment later, and I’m straddling Murphy again, as bare as he is, pressing back against him just as he asked me to. His head tips back, his face partially disappearing under the pillow for a second, and I can just make out the muffled curse. His fingers dig into my hip bones for one brief, almost painful second before relaxing.

 

“Need...need t’be inside ye, love. Please.”

 

“Look me in the eyes and ask me again, Murphy.”

 

I’m arrested by the darkened depths of Murphy’s pupils as his gaze fixes wholly on me. He doesn’t smirk at the effect his look has on me tonight, though he has every reason to. He watches me with an intensity I haven’t seen before, even from him, his eyes set on me as if I might disappear if he were to look away.

 

“Please, Grace. Need t’be as close t’ye as I can t’night.”

 

I rise to my knees above him, and he presses my hips back, guiding me to exactly the right spot before pulling down with his hands and sliding up with his thighs, meeting me in the middle. He never releases my gaze as we move together, and though my usual inclination is to close my eyes and enjoy the moment, I find I can’t look away.

 

“Ye see what ye do t’me, girl? Ye feel it? Christ in Heaven, ye drive me insane…”

 

His words wash over me as he continues to murmur wonderful, filthy compliments and explanations of exactly how I affect him, and I can feel him growing harder inside me by the second. His breath is coming faster, and I know he’s close, but he holds himself back from release, his fingers sliding between us. I still his hands with a touch even as my hips continue to rock with his.

 

“Let me do this for you, Murphy,” I say quietly. “I...I don’t think I can let go right now, so let me do this for you.” I can see his pride warring with the absolute need for release, but I never relent my pace or motion, and after few thrusts, his head falls back with a sigh as his hips begin to work upwards with a renewed vigor. His fingers skate ardently up the plane of my belly, coming to rest just beneath my breasts, and his voice is breathless and reverent when he speaks.

 

“Ye feel so fuckin’ good, lass. Yer fuckin’ gorgeous, perched up dere on top o’me. Never seen ye more beautiful, cept when yer comin’ fer me.”

 

“I love you, too, Murphy,” I gasp as a particularly sharp thrust of his hits the perfect spot to make my walls clamp down hard around him. He stiffens beneath me, his chest frozen as his breath catches in his throat and his eyes clench shut. My name slips from between his lips with the fervor of adulation, and my heart skips painfully at the sound of it. He holds my hips tightly against him, not letting me move an inch as he rides out his high.

 

“I love you,” I murmur again, leaning forward until I’m pressed against his heaving chest. Murphy’s arms circle me again, pulling me tightly against his flushed, sweat-slick skin. After a minute or so of recovery, Murphy slides out of me, shifting until I’m lying on my side next to him.

 

He embraces me from behind, his chest deliciously warm against my cool back. His arm is slung across my collarbone, holding me tightly to him as if I might escape given the chance.

 

“What’s dis I hear about ye not bein’ able t’let go fer me?” I giggle as his breath tickles over my neck, and I can feel his grin against my shoulder. “Ye t’ink dis is funny, do ye? Me very manhood’s at stake, an’ she laughs at me. Just have t’impress upon her th’seriousness of th’situation, den, won’t I?”

 

He moves away a couple of inches, but before I can protest the absence of his back against mine, his free hand strokes slowly up the back of my neck, pressing hard into the tight muscles at the base of my skull. It hurts like hell in the best possible way, and I swear the groan that escapes my throat comes all the way from my toes.

 

“Dat’s what I want t’hear from ye,” he breathes, clearly pleased with himself. “Let’s see if we can’t get a few more of dem outta ye now.”

 

He works over my neck for a good five minutes before dragging his fingernails lightly down my back. I squeak and jerk forward as he hits a particularly ticklish spot, but his arm over my chest holds me firmly in place, and he murmurs soothingly in my ear, pulling my hip back towards him again.

 

His free hand smooths down my lower back and over the curve of my ass, slipping between my legs from behind.

 

“Murphy,” I say quietly, even as I’m reveling in his ministrations, “I don’t know if I can get out of my head tonight. I want to, I really do, but-”

 

“Den why don’t ye just lay back an’ let me drive now? Least I c’n do is try.”

 

Murphy’s fingers press between my folds, already slick with his release, and my hips press back against him of their own volition. Unlike my body, though, my mind is a maelstrom of worry, fear, and arousal, and it can’t seem to decide which part to focus on. Despite having Murphy’s very talented fingers working their magic on me, I can’t stop thinking about what might happen tomorrow.

 

“Murphy, I...I need you to talk to me again. Please, I can’t...I can’t stop thinking. I need you to get me out of my head. Tell me something...anything, please? I just…want to hear you.”

 

He’s silent for a moment, his fingers still, then he begins to speak, his voice lower than normal and barely above a whisper. His fingers start to move again, slowly sliding forward until they find the swollen bundle of nerves they’re seeking and work carefully around it, deliberately avoiding touching exactly there.

 

“Th’night b’fore Connor gave me th’black eye over ye, I got home b’fore you an’ him. Had a shitty day at work, just wanted t’get t’sleep b’fore th’two of ye got back an’ started up. Couldn’t stand th’thought of listenin’ to ye t’gether an’ not gettin’ t’be th’one t’work dose gorgeous sounds outta yer throat.”

 

I shiver a little at the intimacy of his words, the raw honesty of his tone. I want to say something, but nothing seems adequate. His fingers slip suddenly over my clit, lightly scraping the tiny nub with the very edge of his fingernail, and my breath catches as my hips thrust involuntarily against his hand. He continues exploring between my legs as if nothing happened, and I slowly relax back against him. He traces the edge of my ear with his nose, his lips ghosting over my neck as he continues his story.

 

“Tried but I couldn’t get t’sleep fer anythin’. Lay on dat mattress fer two hours, tryin’ my damndest t’pass out, knowin’ it wasn’t gonna happen, me nerves practically on fire waitin’ fer ye t’get back. Den th’two of ye come bustin’ through th’door, an’ Connor’s already got ye nearly stripped bare, an’ you not even noticin’ I’m dere yer so taken with him.”

“I’m sorry, Murphy, I didn’t-”

 

“Dis story ain’t t’get ye t’feel bad, girl, just listen’.” He presses gentle kisses from the edge of my shoulder all the way up my neck to just below my ear before he speaks again.

 

“Ye were more dan a little tipsy dat night, if I recall, an’ ye were a bit more vocal dan usual, tellin’ Connor exactly what he was doin’ right an’ what ye wanted him t’do differently, an’ God help me, I listened t’every fuckin’ word, Grace, like I was learning me catechism. Could feel me fingers twitch when ye asked ‘im t’touch ye like dis-” and here he demonstrates by sliding his fingers inside and curling them just right as he thrusts inward. A jolt of pleasure shoots through my belly, and my legs clamp reflexively on his wrist as I moan his name shamelessly.

 

“Or when ye asked him t’do dat t’ing t’yer neck but not leave a mark.” He follows his words with the action, his lips fastening on the crook of my neck as his teeth dig gently into my skin, followed immediately by his tongue soothing the sting.

 

“An’ den ye were on top o’him, riding him just like I dreamed ye would do wit’ me, an’ fergive me, lass, but I watched ye th’whole fuckin’ time. Couldn’t take me eyes off th’way yer skin shined in th’little bit o’light from th’windas, the way yer tits bounced every time ye thrust on ‘im, the line o’yer neck when ye’d throw yer head back. Could near feel it when Connor slipped his hand between ye, how slick ye must’ve been. Couldn’t help t’inkin’ how much slicker ye’d be if ye were ridin’ me ‘stead o’him. An’ when ye came, lass, Christ...the keenin’ sound that came from ye near made me come right dere, like a teenager gettin’ his first hand job in th’backseat of a car.”

 

His fingers press harder against me now, deliberately moving over and around my clit before dipping inside to thrust once, twice, enough to make my hips move with his hand for a moment before retreating. My breath is coming faster now, my heart thumping painfully in my chest. I can feel his cock, already hard again, throbbing insistently against my ass as his hips thrust lazily.

 

“Knew ye were most likely gonna end up asleep wit’ me again dat night, an’ I couldn’t have ye comin’ over t’me bed just t’have dis against ye all night,” he murmurs, his lips hot against my ear as he grinds calculatingly against me in time with his story. “Had t’take care o’meself once th’two of ye were done an’ asleep, half prayin’ ye didn’t wake t’me strokin’ it an’ half prayin’ ye would. Had th’thought of ye, pressed against me when ye were sleepin’, freezin’ feet an’ all, thinkin’ what if yer hand strayed down one night, brushed over me, what it would feel like t’wake up to yer hands on me. Had yer name on me lips wit’ ev’ry ot’er breath. Fastest I’ve ever come in me life, thinkin’ of ye like dat.”

 

The tension in my belly sharpens painfully, and I moan as Murphy’s fingers thrust hard into me, his thumb grinding relentlessly into my clitoris. My arm comes up, curling around the back of his neck, pulling him impossibly closer as his lips wander freely over my neck and jaw.

 

“An’ when ye did come t’me dat night, Grace, like ye always did, took everythin’ in me not t’take ye right dere. Ye had nothin’ on but dese tiny panties an’ a tiny nothin’ of a shirt, stringy little straps an’ all. Could see yer nipples straight through, standin’ up underneath dat bit o’cloth, an’ I fair drooled thinkin’ o’how dey would feel against me tongue,” he whispers, his voice ragged in my ear. The hand that’s been slung across my chest, holding me firmly to him until now, moves straight to my breast, pinching my nipple hard as he thrusts against my ass again, his fingers dipping inside me simultaneously with his other movements.

 

“Murphy,” I whimper, but I don’t know what else to say.

 

“Held ye to me dat night, usin’ every bit o’willpower in me not t’just take ye an’ make ye ferget why ye didn’t start out in me bed in th’first place. Realized I couldn’t take not bein’ able t’work dose noises outta ye, not hearin’ me name on yer lips, not knowin’ what ye tasted like when ye came on me tongue, or not knowin’ how fuckin’ heavenly it felt like t’be inside ye-”

 

Murphy takes his hand from between us, and I almost weep at the lack of sensation. Then his fingers are digging into my hip, his lips burning against my neck, and he breathes, “Hang on t’me, Grace.”

 

With a sharp jerk, Murphy is sheathed inside me, his hips flush against me, and my fingers clench reflexively in his hair as his name is forced from my lips again. His fingers slip between my legs from the front this time, sliding in time to his strokes as his hips snap mercilessly against my ass.

 

“ _Come fer me_ ,” he orders harshly, his voice jagged and brutal as he plunges repeatedly into me. “Come hard, lass, come fer me now. _Get t’fuck outta yer head an’ just come fer me. Now_.”

 

The rest of the world is lost to the explosion within me, and I finally am able to lose myself as the release I’ve been chasing courses through me. I thrust brazenly back against Murphy, pressing his fingers hard against my clit with my own hand, echoing his name in a repeated mantra as I come against him. He drives raggedly into me twice more before freezing against my back, his fingers digging hard into my flesh as he follows me over the edge.

 

“Good girl,” he exhales against my neck.

 

After several minutes of relearning how to breathe properly, I turn in Murphy’s embrace, pulling his face to mine for a long, deep kiss.

 

“You can stop me from thinking absolutely any time, Murphy. You have my express permission to stop me thinking whenever and however you deem necessary.”

 

He grins as he pulls the blanket over the top of us and rests his forehead against mine. His eyes close for a moment as he takes in a steadying breath, and he nudges the tip of my nose with his own.

 

“Want t’stop ye thinkin’ fer th’rest of our lives, lass. ‘F’it were up t’me, ye’d never have t’think again.”

 

That’s the dream, isn’t it?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week mostly went much better. You guys are fabulous. The writing...oh, the writing has taken off. I'm not nearing the end of the updates because I've gotten so far ahead, but I am nearing the end of this story, writing-wise. I had no idea these boys could say or do such things. Soooo many things are so very different then I originally intended. If you're still liking what you're reading and want me to keep going, please to let me know. Thanks so much for keeping up with the story.


	16. Chapter 16

"We ain't gonna tell ye any details about where we're gonna be or names or any o'dat shit, just in case," Connor says, stuffing things into one of their gym bags. "But we should be back here by midafternoon at th'latest."

I know they can't give me anything more specific than that, but I still feel compelled to ask, "You can't, I dunno, contact me or something on your way back to let me know you're okay?"

Murphy glances up from the sofa where he's tying his bootlaces and cracks a half-smile despite the god-awful early hour. Why I agreed to nine o'clock at Jen's place I'll never know.

Oh, wait...early was my idea. Sigh.

"Sure, lass, we'll just call ye on yer cell phone, aye? Th'one ye don't have?"

My eyes light up as I suddenly remember that I will, in fact, have access to a cell phone today. I grab a scrap of a receipt off the coffee table and scribble a number down on each end, ripping the paper in half and handing each bewildered twin a copy.

"That's Jen's cell phone number. She has one because the company said she has to be reachable at all times, and she bitches about it, but today I'll listen to her bitch the whole time we're shopping if it means you can get in touch with me."

Connor stuffs the scrap of paper in his pocket and zips the bag he was packing. "We'll call ye if summat happens. Now, lass, ye gotta listen fer a minute. We don't anticipate dis goin' badly, but if we call ye an' tell ye t'get outta town, ye can't come back here. Ye gotta just get on the nearest train t'New York an' keep yer head down til ye get dere. We put some o'th'cash in yer purse just in case."

"What?" This is news to me, and I can feel the astonishment spread over my face. "If we were going to talk exit strategies, I feel like ten minutes before I leave to go shopping with Jen might not have been the opportune moment."

Connor sets a black bag by the front door and makes his way over to the couch where Murphy is pulling on his other boot. I'm perched on the arm of the sofa with a mug of coffee, trying to coax myself to choke down the caffeine, as I have no other source of it in the house. Connor settles next to me and holds out his hand for the mug, which I happily relinquish to him as I slide into his lap.

"I still don't know how you drink that stuff, and black no less. It's so bitter."

"You're changin' th'subject." Connor drains the last of the coffee and sets the empty mug on the table. He pulls me a little, shifting me until we're fact to face and I'm straddling his thighs.

"I'm bein' completely serious now, love. Ye know how dangerous dis is. We know we've been lucky so far, an' we're not tryin' t'be overconfident, but t'day shouldn't be a problem. But we didn't have t'worry 'bout ye on th'first two jobs, least not nearly as much as I am now, an' we want ye t'be ready in case somethin' goes wrong."

"I get that," I admit, staring down at where my hands are twisting fretfully between us. "I just...okay, so, something goes massively wrong, you call Jen's phone to let me know, and I hit the train to New York. Then what? Do you guys follow? Where do we meet? Are we on the run forever? I mean, I have work on Monday, and...well, okay, staying alive is a tad bit more important than work, but-"

"Yer ramblin', lass," Murphy interjects, straightening up from his boots. "If worst case happens, head t'New York and take a cab t'dis address."

He hands me his own scrap of paper with the name of a hotel and an address scribbled on it. As I stare at the paper in my hand, I realize they've been planning for this all week, as well. This is what I get for not wanting to be in on the details. I shove the address into my pocket and clear my throat, staring at the rosary laying somberly against Connor's chest, frowning and blinking hard.

"But you guys would come as soon as you can?" I'm not going without them. There's just no point.

"Aye, Grace. We'd follow soon as we can. But dis is worst case, lass. We'll meet up wit' ye dis afternoon, ye'll see." Connor raises his head to mine, catching my lips with his, and I can't help throwing myself into the kiss with everything I've got. As my arms circle Connor's neck and his fingers begin to dig into my waist, I hear Rocco sigh in the hallway.

"You all about done kissin' goodbye yet? Is it safe?"

Laughing, I disengage from a cursing Connor and stand surprisingly steadily, though admittedly my knees are trembling just a bit.

"Don't think you've gotten out of your kiss goodbye either, Roc. Got one for everybody this morning."

There's some brief milling about, pouring the last of the coffee for Rocco, a gathering of coats as the weather has turned a bit cooler again, and after another couple of minutes we all seem to be ready to leave. I turn to look at the guys and find myself taken aback.

I've seen them like this a thousand times before, the three of them in their coats and shades, but the expression on their faces is so foreign that for a moment it's as if complete strangers are staring back at me from behind the sunglasses. They are all intensely and utterly solemn and a little frightening as they stare passively back at me. Connor and Murphy each hold one of the sports bags they were packing earlier, their Aequitas and Veritas tattoos standing out starkly against their skin, and Rocco has his hands deep in his coat pockets again.

I swallow reflexively, my stomach twisting at the somber sight of them, and for just a second I see a flash of them from my dream, bloody and mangled. Shaking suddenly down to my very bones, I drop my face into my hands, taking in a shuddering breath and willing myself to get my shit together. They don't need this weakness from me; they need to concentrate on what they're about to do. My fingers clench into fists suddenly, the heels of my palms digging into my eyes to ward off the burning tears I feel coming.

Three deep, slow breaths later, I emerge, calm and collected if not exactly happy, from the safety of my hands and silently hold my arms out to Connor. He murmurs something meant to be comforting in my ear, squeezing me tightly and pressing his lips to mine. Murphy follows suit, telling me to try to not worry before brushing a kiss over my cheek.

And then I'm facing Rocco.

My friend lifts his shades so they're resting on top of his head and pulling his hair out of his face. I can see in his eyes he's thinking of our conversation on Thursday, and from the expression on his face I know better than to say anything in front of the twins. Instead, I put my arms around his neck, pulling the hug down to my height, and when he finally returns the embrace, I whisper, "Take care of...Take care of them for me." I kiss his scratchy cheek and let him go.

There's nothing left to say after that, so we all head out together, locking the door behind us. There's no conversation as we troop down the steps and out the building's front door into nearly blinding sunlight. Squinting grumpily at the evil brightness, I step over to the curb to hail a cab, and the boys head down the block after another brief goodbye. I watch them stride purposefully away, looking strangely smooth and a little intriguing in the morning light with their dark coats and sunglasses.

A taxi pulls up, and as I open the door to slide in, I glance back over my shoulder in time to see the three of them about to round the corner. Murphy glances back at me at the same time and tosses me a little half smile before they disappear from view.

…

"You've tried that suit on twice already."

Jen's voice breaks through the haze of worry clouding my brain, and I look up from the jacket I'm buttoning. We're in one of Jen's favorite clothing stores, as I have no favorites of my own, and she's been helping me pick out different combinations to try on for the last I don't know how many hours. I realize I'm staring blankly (and rudely) at her and decide I should probably react to her statement in a more civilized manner.

"Have I? I thought it was...oh, damn. Sorry, yeah. Bit distracted today."

"I noticed." She smiles in amusement, handing me a couple of pieces of clothing and shoving me gently back towards the dressing room. "I'll shop, you try on and remember to come out and model. You told me your budget, I'll help you figure it out at the end. Then we'll go for some food and get your blood sugar up."

I nod absently, wandering back towards the changing room as I wonder for the hundredth time if the guys are okay. They didn't tell me what time everything was going down, so for all I know, they could be done and on their way back. Or about to go in. Or in the middle of the fight.

Or…

_No. Stop it._

I don't remember trying anything else on. I only vaguely recall Jen sorting through a stack of clothes with me as I blindly agree to all her suggestions. She patiently guides me up to the register and sticks my purse in my hands, nudging me in the side to motivate me to action.

I shake my head to try and clear my thoughts at least long enough to pay, and I dig through my purse to find my wallet. My fingers brush something unfamiliar, and I glance inside my bag to see a medium-sized, thickly stuffed manila envelope. I lift the flap curiously, thinking this must be the cash the boys left me as just-in-case money.

I don't know if it's actually possible to choke on nothing, but I'm pretty sure that's what I do when I see the envelope's contents. There are stacks of hundreds inside the envelope, at least five full stacks, and I have a moment of complete disconnect from reality. They stuck all that in my purse?! Are they _INSANE?!_

_Aye, lass, crazy as dey come._

Jen nudges me once more, bringing me back to the present, and I numbly pull my credit card from my wallet, blindly signing the receipt without actually looking at the number. Jen gathers my bags and delicately propels me from the store. I panic for just a second, worried that somehow every pickpocket and mugger within a twenty block radius will somehow know I've got _fifty fucking thousand dollars_ in my purse and come after me. Jen takes one look at my wild-eyed expression, and takes a firm grip on my elbow, steering me to the curb.

"Lunch," she says firmly, hailing a taxi.

"Yeah," I manage to choke out as we slide into the back of the first cab. "Food would definitely be good."

Fifteen minutes later sees us seated at my regular diner of all places, since I was unable to communicate what I was willing to eat and it's the only place that Jen and I both know. Becky doesn't even bother asking me what I want this time; she just brings me the cheeseburger and fries after Jen says she'll have the same.

"So what's up?" she says, picking up a fry from her plate. "I've never heard you make that noise before. Obviously everything's not okay, so spill."

"I...don't know how much I can talk about it," I finally admit. "I really want to, God would I love to talk to someone sane and firmly grounded in reality about this, but...it's not...I can't…" To my embarrassment, I can feel the tears pricking the backs of my eyes again, and a sudden knot in my throat keeps me from finishing any sort of coherent sentence.

"Hey, it's okay," she says, reaching across the table and touching the back of my trembling hand. "We don't have to talk about anything at all, if you don't want to."

"I…I do want to, it's just...let me think about what I can tell you, and then I'll share what I able to?"

I have a flashback to the first conversation I had with Rocco about the guy they're going after today, the night he and I had our first dessert date where he said almost the exact same words to me, and I shake my head silently. I don't know the symbolism of the similarity, but I'm hoping it's more coincidence than anything else.

After a few fries, I finally decide I can at least tell Jen about the stuff that was in the papers. I mean, public knowledge and all. She listens wide-eyed, commenting at first on the boys' idiocy in regards to the fight at the bar before finally falling silent as I explain what happened at their apartment with the Russians in the alley and turning themselves in to the police afterwards.

"But they're both pretty much okay?" she asks when I've finished. I nod through a mouthful of cheeseburger, and she sits back in her chair, clearly astonished. "Seriously, though? It's like something out of a bad movie that gets played on Saturday afternoon when no one should ever be watching TV."

"I know, right?! Thank you! That's what I said!" I laugh for the first time all day. "Good God, they could've both died, and they've been acting like it's just a normal week. I don't even know how to handle them."

"And now they're living with you...geez, how much not fun is it having all those guys in your house? Your bathroom must be a disaster area!"

The rest of lunch goes a lot better. I manage to stay focused on the food and the conversation as Jen catches me up on what's been going on in the office while I've been gone for the last two months.

"And your first travel assignment will be around the middle of June, so you have plenty of time to prepare for it," she says as she hands Becky a twenty at the register. I nod, digging out my own money and paying. I glance at the clock as we're leaving, and I'm shocked to see it's almost two.

"When the hell did it get so late?" I ask Jen, dumbfounded. She glances at me to see if I'm serious before answering.

"Grace, we went to five different stores this morning. Look at your shopping bags."

I glance down at the bags I'm clutching, and my eyes go wide. Holy shit. She's right.

Just as I'm about to apologize for being such a space cadet, a sharp, urgent chiming sound echoes from the depths of Jen's purse. She fumbles bags around until she can get a hand on her phone and answers with a quick, "Hello?"

Her eyebrows lower for a second in confusion, and she glances at me. Before I can ask, she says into the phone, "No, we're both fine. Nothing's weird beyond Grace being in outer space all morning, why do you ask?"

She waits a moment, listening before saying, "Yeah, hang on a sec, I'll give you to her." She holds the phone out to me, a troubled expression on her face.

"It's Connor. He says it's urgent."

I don't even think to apologize for not asking before I get her cell number out as I snatch the phone from her hand. Images of bullet holes and missing fingers flash through my mind, and I answer with a lot more panic in my voice than I intend.

"Connor? What's wrong? Where's Murphy and Rocco? Are you okay? What happened?"

"Breathe, lass, we're all alive. We're patched up as best we can right now, but we were hopin' ye could bring us a few supplies an' maybe some food. We're not in much shape to go out right now."

His voice sounds strained, but he's alive, they're all alive, and I could literally weep with relief.

"Thank God," I whisper as I let out the breath I've been holding all day. "Alright, tell me what you need and where to go." He rattles off a quick list of things that I can find at the drugstore and an address to meet them at afterwards before saying he has to go and hanging up.

I hand Jen her phone back, trying to school my features into an apologetic expression rather than a relieved one. "I'm sorry I gave them your number, but they wanted a way to reach me today since they were going on some sort of...trip."

"Grace, is...do you…" She trails off, considering her words carefully. "Connor asked me if anything had happened this morning or if we'd seen anything strange. You don't have to tell me what's going on. Just tell me if there's anything I can help you with, okay? I'll do what I can."

"I appreciate that, Jen, more than you know. I've got to go; they're asking me to see if I can get them some burn cream the drugstore, so one of them must've tried to cook again or something. Thank you for your help this morning, seriously. I'll see you Monday."

Jen nods, a troubled look on her face, but she doesn't protest as I hail a cab to take me to the nearest drug store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I have only excuses, no real reasons for not posting for so long. I got wrapped up in reading another fanfiction story (Star Trek, a Kahn fic...Benedict Cumberbatch, OMG AMIRITE?) and I couldn't think at all while I was reading it. To make up for it, I will post the next chapter no later than two days from now, and possibly another chapter soonish after that. I will admit to being a bit creatively blocked on the bit of the story I'm working on right now, but I think I might've found a way to knock that wall down. I hope. Thanks for being patient with me and for reading this far. Shout out to Sunfreckle who reminded me that I did still have a story to come back to afte rbeing absolutely devastated by the fanfic I was reading, and as always a huge shout out to bleedingrose0688, whose Boondock Saints story "Her Defenses" needs to be checked out by all of you and right now. If you like what you're reading and want me to keep going, please and thank you to let me know.


	17. Chapter 17

The house the cabbie drops me off in front of is so idyllic I almost turn around and call him back. This can’t be right; there’s no way Connor and Murphy know anyone who would live in a place like this. Maybe Rocco knows the owner? The lawn is impeccable, recently mown and edged, and the siding looks like someone scrubbed it down with a toothbrush very recently. Gleaming white with cheerful red shutters, the tiny house is sandwiched between two larger homes, and I make my way hesitantly up the narrow walk. There are iron grates, tastefully wrought but impressively impenetrable, over each of the windows, and the door is actually solid wood.

 

I rearrange the load of bags in my arms so I can ring the doorbell. The quiet of the neighborhood descends rapidly as the tones fade, enough so that I can hear a very faint click on the other side of the door.

 

“Guys?” I call, loudly enough for someone on the other side to hear me but hopefully not loudly enough to draw attention. I feel like there are eyes on me everywhere, although I have no idea who would be following me or even how they would know to follow me. “It’s me, let me in.”

 

There’s a flutter of curtains in the narrow window next to the door, but before I can see who’s watching me, I hear another soft click and the face it gone. Several locks scrape open on the other side of the door, and I decide that whoever lives here may be stuck in the era of Beaver Cleaver when it comes to home style, but they sure do know a little bit about home security.

 

The door opens a crack, the chain still in place, and Murphy’s eyes shine out at me from the gloom inside. As soon as our eyes meet, he shuts the door, and I hear the chain drop on the other side. He opens the door once more, wide enough for me to squeeze past him and slip inside before he shuts it and bolts the locks back in place.

 

He pulls me into an urgent one-armed hug the second he’s done locking the door. Deciding nothing in the bag is too breakable or irreplaceable, I drop everything I’m holding and pull Murphy’s mouth to mine, almost sobbing with the sheer joy of seeing him alive and whole, at least as far as I can tell. He meets my frantic kiss just as fiercely, and for one brief, overwhelming moment, all I can feel is an acute sense of relief that leaves me breathless with its intensity.

 

Murphy is alive and safe, and he’s right here in my arms where he belongs. I pull away from the kiss to bury my face in his neck, trying to stifle the foolish tears that are once again threatening to escape. Goddamn Niagara Falls, indeed.

 

“Thank God you’re alive. Are you okay? What happened?” I lean back to look him over, remembering why Connor called me here in the first place. His face is pale and haggard, and the left sleeve of his shirt has been cut open just above the elbow. A white bandage circles his arm, stained pink with seeping blood. Murphy’s eyes follow my line of sight, and he shrugs.

 

“More of a graze dan anyt’in’ else; bullet just winged me. Took a little chunk out, but we cauterized it t’stop th’bleedin’, s’why we asked ye t’get some o’dat burn cream shit. Should make fer an interestin’ scar, though.” He offers me a reserved half-smile, gauging my reaction to his attempt at a joke.

 

I can feel my face folding in on itself in displeasure as I bite out, “I won’t ever joke with you about this, Murphy. There’s not a thing about it that I find funny.”

 

His smile fades, replaced by weariness and understanding. “Aye, lass, ‘m sorry. Know dis isn’t sittin’ well wit’ ye. Come wit’ me, I’ll take ye back t’th’others.”

 

I take a second to close my eyes and just breathe, dropping my shoulders and rolling my neck around to let out some tension. I’m not upset with Murphy, not entirely, and this day will be a hell of a lot easier to get through if I can just find some sense of calm amidst this shitstorm.

 

“I shouldn’t have snapped, Murphy; I know you’re just trying to make me feel better. I’m right behind you.” I pick up the bags from the drugstore and the sandwich shop, leaving behind my clothing bags that I didn’t want to waste time dropping off at home. I follow Murphy down the short, dim hallway, still wondering whose house this is.

 

He opens a door on our right, and we step into a kitchen straight out of the fifties, complete with aqua paint and counters and white tiling with some strange, random, pink swirling motif. The kitchen seems spotless at first until I get further into the room and realize that the pink is not in fact part of the tiles but rather faint smears of blood that haven’t been completely wiped up.

 

I can handle this. I can. I will.

 

Shuddering with faint revulsion, I take in a slow breath to steady myself, but that proves to be a huge mistake. There’s a lingering smell in the air of burnt meat that makes my stomach turn. My eyes flick to the stove, where a bloody iron rests, and I recall what Murphy said in the hallway about cauterizing his arm. Judging by how much blood has been wiped down in the kitchen, though, Murphy isn’t the only one who needed to use that iron.

 

Connor and Rocco sit at the kitchen table, looking just as worn out as Murphy. Connor’s right leg is propped up on a chair, the denim cut away halfway between his knee and hip, much like Murphy’s sleeve, and a similar bandage covers the skin there. Rocco leans heavily against the table across from him, nursing a beer with a bandaged hand that now shows only his thumb and first three fingers. What’s left of his shirt that hasn’t been cut away is stained red and pink.

 

I freeze in the doorway, not sure if I should try to convince myself if I’m awake or I’m asleep. One of the paper bags slips from my paralyzed fingers, hitting the tiled floor with a sharp slap. Connor’s head snaps up, his gun raised in his hand before he fully registers I’m there, and I take an involuntary step back, my stomach twisting with fear as I recall the scene in my apartment a week ago.

 

“Sorry, lass, sorry,” Connor says hastily, laying the gun on the table. “Job didn’t go exactly as planned, an’ we’re still a little...on edge.”

 

I swallow thickly at the rush of saliva in my mouth, willing my lunch to stay put. I’m just barely controlling my breathing as I crouch to gather the spilled contents of the bag. I spread everything out on the counter, directing Murphy to hand out the food while I organize the supplies I picked up from the drugstore.

 

“The...uh...the pharmacist said not to...to get the over-the-counter burn cream, said it wouldn’t do you as much good as the prescription s...stuff, but I didn’t have...have a prescription, so, yeah,” I stammer, my fingers shaking as I move a few things over to the table where Murphy has joined the other two. “He said aloe with lidocaine first for numbing the area a little and then Neosporin and clean bandages. So...so just...um...just eat, and I’ll...take care of that part.”

 

The next fifteen minutes are the most nerve-wracking and gruesome of my life. Murphy’s arm isn’t as bad as it could be, if one could say that about a bullet wound that’s been sealed shut with a burning iron. Though I’m as gentle as I can be, I still flinch every time he grimaces in pain and end up taking probably twice as long as I should because I’m so hesitant to hurt him even more.

 

Connor’s wound isn’t nearly as deep, and it seems like the bullet basically gouged a shallow groove across the side of his thigh. This does mean that his burn is significantly longer than Murphy’s, so dressing it takes a bit more time.

 

I kneel on the floor next to him, my fingers trembling as I reach hesitantly toward the wound with a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic. I have to stop before I even manage to touch the injury, closing my eyes and taking in a deep breath. I manage to get through wiping down the area and move on to applying the aloe, though my fingers are still shamefully unsteady. Connor reaches down and strokes his thumb across my cheekbone, his eyes bright with pain and concern.

 

“Don’t be afraid t’cause me a bit o’pain, lass. Can take it, an’ dis needs t’be done. Yer doin’ fine.”

 

He’s been shot. He’s been actually fucking shot today, and he’s comforting _me_.

 

When I get to Rocco, though, I can’t go through with it. His hand is wrapped in bloody white scraps of fabric, and everything in me is screaming to not remove them, to not see the bloody stump of his missing finger.

 

“I can’t...I need...let me get some air for a minute.” I beat a hasty exit to the hallway, turning back towards the front of the house. I stop with my hand on the doorknob, remembering how cautious Murphy was about letting me in, and realize I probably shouldn’t actually go outside. I don’t know what happened or who could possibly be following them that they’d be so cautious about; so staying inside, while not ideal, is the safest option at the moment.

 

Shaking and on the edge of completely breaking down, I turn from the front door to see a room I hadn’t noticed before. It’s set up like an old-fashioned sitting room with a couple of little arm chairs in a floral pattern and a matching loveseat book-ended by delicate little side tables. There’s a larger table sitting under windows that are covered with the most delicate curtains I’ve ever seen. The bright little room is full of frill and lace, and framed photographs cover every bare inch of wall space in the room. Desperately needing a distraction, I take a few steps into the room, careful not to touch anything with my bloodied fingers.

 

The first picture frame shows a grainy, sepia-toned photograph of a young couple standing outside this house, their hands clasped, their faces happy but serious in the way of most older photographs. There’s a progression of pictures of the family around the room, and I watch as the couple expands to include a baby who slowly progresses through the stages of childhood. I follow the aging child and couple through a series of pictures around the room that culminates in a formal photograph of a friendly-looking teenager sporting a very seventies hairstyle. The boy is smiling broadly in this picture, and I realize I recognize that grin.

 

The next picture features a large group of people in dark clothing, obviously posed, with teenage Rocco and the woman from the couple (who I assume is his mother), sitting in the middle. The man from all the earlier family photos isn’t present. The photographs continue, although they are far less numerous than they were, just a few more to show the passing of the last eighteen years, and in all of these, only Rocco and his mother are featured.

 

“My pop passed the week after I graduated high school. Heart attack. It’s the reason I got in with Yakavetta in the first place. Had to support Ma somehow, an’ I wasn’t good for nothin’ but followin’ directions. Saw all them big shot mobsters hangin’ around the neighborhood, livin’ what looked like the pretty damn good life, and I thought I could do that for Ma if I just followed orders good enough.”

 

Rocco is leaning heavily on the doorframe, his face drawn and pained. I notice he’s wearing a fresh shirt, but the bandage on his hand obviously needs redressing.

 

“I’m sorry about your dad. So, this is your mom’s place? Is she…” I trail off, not wanting to ask the obvious question of where she is, just in case the answer turns out badly.

 

“Down visiting my Aunt Martha and my cousins in Jersey. Won’t be back for another few weeks. As long as we get the place cleaned up and don’t break nothin’, she won’t mind we were here. Said I could use the place if things with Donna got too shitty.”

 

“She sounds like a pretty understanding kind of mom,” I offer. I have another one of those surreal, detached moments, standing in the middle of a sea of happy memories of someone else’s childhood. I mean, if a childhood as obviously loved and whole as Rocco’s could turn out this fucked up, what hope is there for me?

 

“She’s the best,” he says simply. “Ya ready to patch me up?”

 

_Suck it up, Buttercup._

 

I shake myself from my moment of dissociation and follow Rocco back to the kitchen. The twins are still sitting at the table, looking about ready to fall out, their sandwich wrappers lying empty and crumpled on the table, and the tiny television that sits in the corner of the kitchen shows the start of a press conference.

 

I glance at the man standing in front of the reporters; he’s sharply dressed in what looks like an expensive suit, his longish hair styled carefully back. If they boys are watching, then this conference mostly like has something to do with the police investigation following their work. I turn abruptly away as Rocco settles down across the table from Connor and Murphy, picking up his beer with his ruined hand.

 

I turn away from them, looking over the supplies I have left. I need gauze for Rocco’s hand, antiseptic, definitely the antibiotic ointment, but I just don’t know if the lidocaine is going to do anything. It didn’t seem to help Connor or Murphy very much. I don’t have any painkillers any stronger than Tylenol. I’m just going to have dive in like I did with the boys and try to get his hand dressed as quickly as possible.

 

I can hear the three of them talking in the background, but none of their conversation registers in my scrambled brain until I hear Rocco say adamantly, “Well, I’d say that makes him a lia-fuckin’-bility.”

 

“He’s not to be touched,” Connor says, his voice deceptively mild. I glance over at him, and though his expression is calm, there’s a steely glint in his eyes as he stares Rocco down.

 

“He’s a good man,” Murphy adds, though without the veiled threat of Connor’s comment. He takes a drag on his cigarette, unaware of the stare down between his brother and his best friend that’s going on across the table.

 

“Okay, whatever,” Rocco dismisses sullenly, his gaze breaking away from Connor’s as he takes a swig of his beer.

 

“Who isn’t to be touched? The guy in the suit?” I ask, turning the sink on and starting to scrub Connor’s blood from my hands. I’ve been careful to wash my hands before working on each of the boys, but I’m cursing myself right now for not thinking of bringing gloves. I spy Rocco’s mother’s dish washing gloves on the back of the sink, but I reject that idea after a moment’s consideration. They’re too thick to be useful. I’ll just have to scrub harder.

 

“Was just tellin’ Roc, ‘tis the FBI agent that interviewed us about killin’ th’Russians in th’alley b’hind our place,” Murphy says. “He’s on th’case, tryin’ t’figure out who’s doin’ all dese mafia killins, an’ we’re pretty sure he’s gonna figure us out sooner rather dan later. Ye didn’t happen t’bring any more food, didja, love?”

 

“There’s another sandwich for each of you and some chips and potato salad in the other bag on the island,” I say, nodding my head in that direction as I dry my hands on a paper towel. I decide to think about Murphy’s comment on the FBI agent after I take care of Rocco.

 

I drop inelegantly into the chair next to Rocco while Murphy digs through the paper bag. I brace myself as I begin to unwind the gauze, thoroughly dreading what I know I’m about to see. Rocco watches my progress tiredly, cursing when I peel the last layer carefully off the stump of his pinky finger.

 

“Just one,” I mutter absently to myself as I carefully clean around the burns. In my dream, he was missing two fingers, one on each hand. All their wounds match my dream so far: Connor’s wrists and leg, Murphy’s arm, but Rocco was missing two fingers. What else is different?

 

I think hard as I smear on a thick layer of triple antibiotic cream. Murphy’s hand was smashed to hell, Connor’s throat bruised, the hole in Rocco’s chest...Head wounds. They all had cuts on their faces; that’s where a lot of the blood had been coming from in the dream.

 

“None of you got any cuts on your face today?” I ask suddenly. I lay a cotton bandage over Rocco’s stump, wrapping gauze carefully around his hand to hold the bandage in place.

 

“Not as we’ve noticed, lass. Why d’ye ask?” Murphy asks around a mouthful of ham.

 

“Just checking,” I answer tiredly as I tie the gauze securely to itself. I offer Rocco a forced half-smile. “All b...all done.”

 

I seriously almost just said, “All better.” To a man who had his finger ripped off.

 

“Any more injuries I should know about? Anybody want to tell me what happened today?”

 

“Got fuckin’ ambushed on our way out,” Connor spits out, his narrowed eyes shifting to Rocco. I see Rocco stiffen out of the corner of my eye, but Connor continues before he can say anything. “Old man, totin’ six fuckin’ guns in some sorta special holster vest. Professional, he was, if ever I saw one.”

 

“How th’fuck would you know?” Murphy asks, pausing midbite, one eyebrow cocked at his brother. “Seen a lotta professional hitmen, have ye?”

 

“Fuck you, any fuckin’ idiot could tell he knew what he was doin’.” There’s no heat behind Connor’s words anymore, though. He’s slumped in his chair again, his arms resting on the table once more. I can tell everyone is ready to drop, their adrenaline rush having worn off long ago.

 

“So, what...they’re sending actual hitmen after you now?” I interject. This definitely sounds like the exact situation that calls for the exit strategy were talking about this morning. “Is this not the worst case scenario you guys were warning me about earlier? Are we leaving town tonight?”

 

The twins share one of those glances, and I instantly know they’re about to tell me something I won’t like. I can feel my hackles rising, but I force myself to wait until I hear what they have to say before jumping to conclusions.

 

“Dey haven’t completely figured out who we are yet, lass, or they woulda sent someone after ye dis mornin’ at th’same time dey came after us; s’why I asked Jen if she’d noticed anythin’ amiss. We figure you’re safe enough, an’ we know ye’ve got yer job an’ all. We didn’t wanna disrupt t’ings for ye too much, so we decided we should head outta town fer a few weeks, let the heat die down in Boston an’ draw any attention away from ye in th’meantime. We need t’get away from here b’fore dat FBI man figures out who we are. Thought we’d head up t’New York early Monday, get lost in th’commuter crowd.”

 

I mull that over for a minute, frowning. I don’t like this plan of separation, but it’s not completely unreasonable. If there’s no connection for me to what’s been going on, it makes sense for them to leave before someone does any of said connecting. It also makes sense for them to take a break from all this before that agent figures them out. I’ve survived being away from them for two months; I guess I can live with a few more weeks. And we have tonight and tomorrow to-

 

“Wait, why are you waiting until Monday? There’s plenty of Sunday crowd on the trains to lose yourselves in.”

 

“We got th’job t’morra, lass, we toldja-”

 

“Are you fucking serious?” I stand abruptly, cutting Connor off. My chair topples over backwards, clattering loudly across the floor tiles in the otherwise silent kitchen. His eyes widen at my outburst, as do Murphy’s, and both of them stare at me in silent astonishment. “You have a job tomorrow? A _job_?! _I_ have a job. _You_ have a death wish. All three of you nearly died today. You’ve _all_ been shot! Rocco lost his finger, just like I told you he would, and you’re telling me you’re still going to Rocco’s boss’s house!? _HAVE YOU ALL COMPLETELY LOST YOUR GODDAMN MINDS_?!?”

 

My shouts echo around the silent room, the air thick with tension. I take a few steps back from them in utter disbelief. My heart thumps wildly in my chest, panic crashing over me in waves. I raise my hands, about to run them through my hair in agitation before I see the blood on them, Rocco’s blood smeared over my palms.

 

Fuck. _Fuck_.

 

“Lass, we toldja b’fore, dis is still th’perfect time t’go after ‘im. His men are down, an’-” Connor starts, clearly winding up to launch into his brilliant plan.

 

“No,” I snarl, livid beyond anything I’ve felt before. I cut Connor off mid-explanation with a fierce glare, daring him to try again. “ _No_. You’re all injured. Connor, you can barely walk. You’re beyond lucky to be alive, and I’m telling you now your luck is fucking gone. I told you what I saw, and all three of you know what hasn’t happened yet. _THERE IS A HITMAN HUNTING YOU DOWN_. This isn’t a movie where the good guy comes out at the end, mangled but alive. This isn’t a game. These are your lives, and you’re just going to throw them away. What the fuck is wrong with you?!? Wait a few days, at least! Why does it have to be tomorrow?!”

 

“He’s injured,” Murphy offers hesitantly. He seems torn between backing his brother up and placating me, and his eyes shift nervously between the two of us. “Th’hitman. One of us tagged him in th’left shoulder, dat’s why he ran off an’ we could get away t’day.”

 

“One of you ‘tagged him in the shoulder’? And you think that makes it safe for you to march into another war zone, bled half to death with bullet holes and missing body parts?”

 

“Never said dis was gonna be safe, lass. Ye knew how dangerous dis was gonna be,” Connor reminds me. He looks far from happy, but his stubborn streak has reared its head, and he’s not backing down even a little. The vein in his forehead has begun to stand out, and I know he’s under tremendous stress right now, but that doesn’t give him the right to act like a moron in the face of almost certain death for at least one of them.

 

I stare incredulously at both of the twins, incensed and wholly without understanding. They stare back at me with the same looks of caution they had in my kitchen when I was holding them at knifepoint. I refuse to break the silence, glaring furiously at Connor and Murphy who seem at a loss for words.

 

Connor’s face is set with conviction, but there’s something in his expression that tries to draw me in, something in him that wants me to understand and accept what he believes they need to do. Murphy’s face is almost as set as Connor’s, his eyes pleading with me to try just a little harder to understand where they’re coming from. The problem is, I don’t know if I have it in me.

 

To my surprise, Rocco is the one to break the stalemate.

 

“Hun, we talked about this. You know why we have to go.” I glance down at my friend, and for a moment the vision of his bloodied face and the gaping wound in his chest wars with the picture of him as a goofy, grinning little kid sandwiched happily between his parents.

 

“What about your mother?” I finally say, desperate for anything that might deter them. “What will she do without you?”

 

“She don’t need me, she’s got her sister an’ their kids. She’ll be better off without me anyway, away from all this shit.” There it is. Rocco knows what’s coming, and he’s accepted it. And there’s nothing I can do or say to change his mind.

 

That doesn’t mean I can’t try.

 

“But...Roc, you can’t just...Please, Rocco, please don’t.” I can’t articulate my words any better than that. The shrieking in my head is threatening to erupt again; if I say anything else to him, I know the screams will come, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.

 

To distract myself even just a little, I turn back to the sink and scrub my hands under the hottest water I can stand, using most of the remaining soap from the container. I consider for a second hunting for some bleach, but I suppose that might be taking things a little far. My fingers tremble under the water, and I angrily scrub even harder, convinced I can still feel Rocco’s blood on my skin.

 

I shut off the water, working to get my ragged breathing under control. I promised the boys I would try to understand what they’re doing, try to be there for them, but they’re going into a situation knowing one or more of them could and probably will die. They could wait even just a few days, but they’re insisting on going right away, knowing there’s someone out there literally gunning just for them. This is something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand, and if the cyclone of terror and disbelief is any indication, I may not ever be able to handle it, either.

 

My fingers dig into the edge of the counter in front of the sink, trying to use the pain as an anchoring point to here and now. I’ve said it so many times over the last week; this is absolute insanity. I can’t, I _will not_ just stand by while they throw themselves into almost certain death. I can’t deal with the dread ripping through my gut, and for one brief second, I think my whole grip on reality is about to shatter.

 

Then the moment passes, and all that’s left in its wake is dazed indifference.

 

“So you’re set on this, all three of you?” I ask finally. No one else in the kitchen has moved for a solid ten minutes, the whole time I’ve had my internal debate in front of the sink. My emotions have finally detached completely, it feels like. I shouldn’t be this calm, but suddenly I don’t feel anything except numb. My voice is flat, near emotionless, wildly different from the first half of our conversation.

 

“Aye,” Connor say, his eyebrows knit together at my sudden change in demeanor. He knows I’m still not happy, and he doesn’t trust the calm. I would say smart man, but I know better than that now. “‘S’what we hafta do.”

 

“I won’t say I understand, because I still don’t,” I say honestly. “I don’t understand why you can’t wait until you’re at least able to walk without limping, Connor, or Murphy can lift a beer without his arm shaking. You’ve all-”

 

I cut myself off as my vocal cords start to tremble. Clearing my throat, I look away from the three of them for several long seconds, my eyes focused on the blank television screen. When I finally look back them, I realize that some part of me is ready to say goodbye because that part of me thinks I won’t ever see them again, and it’s tired of the fear and sheer lunacy of the last two weeks.

 

Murphy sees the change in my eyes and stands, his mouth working for a moment, panic crossing his face. My heart aches at the sight of his distress, but my brain clamps down hard and refuses to give any more ground.

 

“Grace, love, can ya just-”

 

“No, I can’t. Stay here tonight. Don’t come to my apartment. I’m going home.”

 

The door to the kitchen closes behind me on utter silence. As I stop in the front entryway to gather my bags, I hear a crash echo down the hall, followed by angry, incensed shouting. Setting my shoulders, pretending I don’t really care if anyone’s lying in wait outside, I leave the idyllic little house and start walking.

 

It’s a long time before I make it home. It takes about an hour of walking to reach somewhere I can just hail a cab from the sidewalk, and then a wreck on one of the main streets back plus construction detours us another thirty minutes. When I finally step through my own doorway, it’s after dark, and I am too exhausted to do anything other than lock the door, drop my bags where I’m standing, and collapse on my sofa.

 

Several minutes pass before the reality of our argument fully dawns on me. Several hours pass before the sobbing subsides. Eventually, I realize I should probably eat something, but I can’t stomach the thought of even trying.

 

I eventually stumble to my bed, and the night creeps haltingly by as I lie awake, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling in the dark. My chest aches, feeling hollow and cracked, and I know I only have myself to blame. I told them to stay away, and they should. I obviously can’t handle their new lives, their new purpose, and all I’ll do is distract them. If I can’t support them, I shouldn’t be trying to stop them from what they think they have to do. Maybe if I’m not standing over their shoulders spouting doom and gloom all the time, reminding them of the horrible things I’ve seen, they’ll make it through this nightmare in one piece. I mean, I did have dreams for months telling me to let them go. Now must be the time to do that.

 

I’d rather have them alive and never see them again than see them all dead.

 

I repeat that to myself for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta daaaa. You guys are awesome. Leave some love.


	18. Chapter 18

Sometime around five-thirty Sunday morning, as the sun is climbing over the horizon, I decide I might as well get up since I’m obviously not going to sleep. A shower seems to be the most logical next step. I stand under the spray, dazed with dread, knowing I will be absolutely useless for the entire day. I reject calling Jen, knowing I owe her a serious explanation for my behavior the day before and wanting to put that talk off for as long as possible.

I frown as I realize that outside of the twins and Rocco, Jen is literally the only other person I really talk to. I haven’t spoken to my parents in years, and I have no other family to speak of. While I do occasionally have lunch with some other people at work and I’m friendly with the crowd at McGinty’s, I literally don’t have anyone else I can confide in about...well, anything.

“That’s a bit depressing,” I murmur as I shut off the water.

Thirty minutes of sitting on the bed staring at nothing as I air dry convinces me that I need to get out of my apartment before I turn into a solid fixture. I dress simply, jeans and a thin, light blue sweater, throwing my hair back into a braid.

The braid takes a little more time to complete than normal, and I glance down to find the braid reaching well past my collar bone. I didn’t’ realize how long it’s gotten. I should probably get it cut, but it’s so easy to deal with by just pulling it back or braiding it, and I don’t really relish the thought of having to put actual effort into styling it. And going to the stylist just sounds way too normal compared to how bizarre the last week has been.

Plus, y’know, the whole never learning how to style beyond braiding kind of puts a cramp in my lack of beauty routine.

After debating where I should actually go, I finally realize there’s only one place I want to be today. One train ride later, I find myself stepping into a park that is slowly coming alive with the spring. The bare trees are beginning to sprout new leaves, with most of them looking as if they’ve been draped with yellow-green lace. The grass is changing over from dead brown to alive, and there are even a few tiny flowers peeping out among the beds.

I head across the Gardens, making my way slowly to the bridge where Connor and I took shelter during that freak tropical storm back in November. Normally, I like to stand on the bridge and people watch, but today I don’t really feel like peopling. I probably couldn’t hold a coherent conversation if I tried, and I just want to stare at the water and sulk by myself. Bypassing the path to the bridge itself, I turn to the side and follow the paved walkway down underneath to the thankfully deserted space. Leaning against the wall, I let myself slide down until I’m sitting with my knees pulled up to my chest.

A glint of light on my hand catches my eye, and I gaze morosely down at the double infinity knot circling the ring finger of my left hand. I feel like a decade has passed since December. I thought the three weeks where I was recovering from my heroic act of stupidity and the twins were barely speaking to me was the hardest time I’d ever go through. It blows my mind to think how naive I really was.

Across the water, I can see a couple of people working on the swan boats, scrubbing off a winter’s worth of grime for the seasonal opening next week. In all the years I’ve lived in Boston, I’ve never actually gone out in one of the swans, always preferring to watch the happy couples and families from the sidelines. Once I became a part of a happy relationship (I wouldn’t call it a couple, really), we just never got around to doing a lot of the sappy stuff I’d always seen people doing that I secretly thought I’d like to try. Every now and then, Connor or Murphy would come up with a romantic gesture or two, like the carnival they took me to this past fall or bringing me dinner when they knew I’d be starving, but mostly we just did a lot of hanging out in various locations.

And while I was totally fine with that at the time, I still find myself wiping tears away at the ridiculous thought that I will never ride in one of those sappy, goofy little boats with either of my guys. I mean, it’s not like we officially broke up, or anything. I definitely needed the night to cool off, but I know they aren’t gone for good. I just can’t see us ever having a normal day in our lives again or doing “normal couple” stuff.

The longer I sit and watch the workers cleaning the swans, the further I sink into my funk of self-pity and misery. I know I’m being ridiculous; the guys are injured, and they need me right now. I can’t stand the thought of them throwing themselves back into the fray tonight, but I obviously can’t stop them.

I just…why do they…I don’t…damn it.

Coming here was a mistake.

“If ye wanted t’ride in one o’dem birds, lass, all ye had t’do was ask. Always want ye t’speak yer mind.”

Connor settles stiffly down on the ground next to me without asking, as if I was expecting him to show up. As I raise my tear-streaked face from where it was resting on my knees, I realize that deep down, I really was.

I turn from him to look back at the small crew working over the boats, wondering how someone can be so much on the same page as me and yet in an almost entirely different universe at the same time.

“I won’t try to talk you out of it again. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“No, ye ain’t, but I appreciate y’sayin’ so, all th’same.” His smile is tired and strained but still genuine, and I know he’s telling the truth. He stretches an arm around my shoulders, snugging me to his side and taking my hand in his. He brushes his thumb absently over my ring, and we watch little bits of twigs and leaves drift by on the water.

“How’d you know I’d be here?” I finally ask, turning my face into the lapel of his coat. I inhale deeply then mentally slap myself as I realize I’m trying to memorize his scent. I can’t think like I’m saying goodbye to him, no matter what I thought or felt yesterday.

“Tried yer apartment, an’ ye weren’t home, so I figured ye couldn’t take bein’ cooped up all day. T’ought ye wouldn’t be able t’eat fer once-” He lets out a startled “oof” when I elbow him in the ribs and squeezes me just a little tighter as he grins and continues, “So I didn’t bother goin’ t’th’diner. Figured wit’ yer head where i’tis, ye’d want t’be out but not where ye’d have to deal wit’ a lot o’people. Seemed like as good a place as any t’start.”

“You know me too well,” I say, slipping my arms inside his coat to circle his waist. “How long do we have?”

Connor knows better than to tease or put me off at this point, and he sighs as he answers, “Murph an’ Roc are back at yer place, gettin’ the stuff t’gether an’ checkin’ it over t’see if dere’s anythin’ we need fer t’night. Gonna leave around seven or eight, after full dark, hit Yakavetta’s around nine or ten. Y’know Murph’ll wanna spend some time wit’ ye t’day, so I told ‘im we’d meet him an’ Roc fer a late lunch at th’diner. Ye don’t have t’eat if ye aren’t feelin’ it,” he adds, glancing down at me.

I nod miserably, not having any reply. I feel like I’m waiting for the world to end, for some sort of bomb to drop and wipe out everything I care about. As much as a part of me felt like it already said goodbye yesterday, the greater part of me isn’t ready to ever say goodbye.

I need them.

“I am sorry I couldn’t handle things better yesterday. I’m not sorry that I yelled at the three of you, you’re right about that, but I should have...I don’t know, been more mature about it? Let you explain yourselves a little more before yelling at you and storming out, maybe. I mean, how does maturity even play into a situation like this?”

I know I’m rambling, but anything to fill the silence and prompt him to speak again.

“Yer probably th’most mature person in me life, lass. Look who I spend me time wit’. Ye keep us anchored t’reality. It’s too much t’ask of ye, an’ I shouldn’t, but...I can’t let ye go. It’s fuckin’ selfish of me, an’ I feel a right bastard, but I need ye, an’ I won’t let ye go lest ye want me to.”

“I don’t want you to,” I say softly. I sincerely mean it, even if a part of me is still trying to push myself out of this situation as hard as it can.

“Ye don’t have t’make up yer mind dis second, Grace. Told ye we’d give ye the chance yer given us. S’pose dat extends to us all offerin’ out second chances, maybe thirds an’ fourths if needs be. I’ll do whatever I can t’keep ye, even if dat means fergivin’ yer sorry carcass every time ye come crawlin’ back t’apologize.”

He snatches my wrist firmly before I can smack him and draws me close, the smile fading from his face.

“Ye’re right, love, we’re all insane, an’ ain’t none o’dis fair, but we hafta do it. D’ye understand? Or, at least, can ye try? We hafta go t’night, we can’t wait. ‘Tis a mad, dangerous t’ing we’re doin’, but it’s got t’be done, and dere ain’t no one else.”

“I really don’t want to try,” I confess, my eyebrows knitting together. I lick my suddenly dry lips, letting out a short, worried breath as a sharp, anxious pain flashes through my abdomen. “I don’t want to understand, I don’t want to try anymore. I just want things to go back to normal and make sense again.”

Connor takes in my words stoically, his face non-reactive, and I realize he’s waiting for me to follow that up. I look deep inside, searching for a scrap of a clue as to what to say or do next. What I say next shocks the hell out of me, but from the look on Connor’s face, he’s not in the least bit surprised.

“I don’t want to, but I will keep trying. For all three of you. You were told to go on this mission, and I was told I have to be there for you. I’m probably going to fuck it up a few more times, but I promise I will keep trying to understand until I just can’t do it anymore.”

I didn’t know I had it in me.

“Can we talk about something else for a little while?” I ask, starting to really feel my lack of sleep. “I just...maybe you could talk about something and I could listen. I know I don’t have any room to complain, but it was a long day yesterday and a longer night, and I didn’t sleep. I just want to enjoy you while I can.”

“Ye sure ye don’t want t’enjoy a bit more o’me, lass? Maybe do a little reminiscin’? Tis a lovely afternoon t’think back on th’good times, aye?” Connor hints, somehow able to make me turn full flush even in the midst of my misery.

“I’m wearing jeans this time, you perv,” I retort. “That, and the whole you getting shot in your leg. Remember that?” He accepts my logic and a kiss on the cheek with cheerful resignation, settling for pulling me just a little closer. I snuggle into the crook of his neck as his arms tighten around me, closing my eyes and reveling in the simple joy of just being with Connor.

“Couple’a years ago, me an’ Murphy were workin’ th’early shift at th’fact’ry, startin’ at six an’ gettin’ off around three or four every day. Then Jim has a middle shift lad go an’ get ‘imself in a car wreck an’ break one o’his legs, so I volunteered t’take his place fer a few months til th’lad could get back on his feet. Kept his job at th’plant dat way, Jim didn’t hafta hire a replacement.”

I listen contentedly, my eyes drifting shut at the wonderful lilting rise and fall of Connor’s voice. I don’t know where he’s going with this story, but I’m more than happy to let him lead me there.

“Had t’work me own startin’ time fer th’first few weeks til dey could get someone rotated t’me spot, so I was workin’ somethin’ like six in th’morning t’seven or eight at night sometimes. Dead tired most o’dose days; didn’t feel like walkin’ back on me own, so I started takin’ th’train every night. First week or so was borin’ as hell. Almost no one ever on, empty cars rattlin’, an’ I near fell asleep most days. An’ den dis one night in December, right after Christmas o’96 if I r’member rightly, dis girl is already sittin’ in th’subway car when I get on, pretty as anyt’in’, an’ she looks up at me an’ smiles.”

The first night I saw Connor. I remember the lop-sided half-smile he turned my way, more smirk than anything else, and I also very clearly remember the dizzy spell I enjoyed for the rest of that train ride, even as I pretended I wasn’t sneaking glances at the gorgeous man sitting a few feet away.

I was a goner from the moment I first laid eyes on him.

“Even after me schedule evened out an’ I didn’t hafta go in til noon, I still rode th’train home most nights, just in case I might see ye again. Hopin’ maybe ye’d work up th’courage t’say somethin’ t’me.”

“You could’ve made the first move, you know,” I point out, my eyes still closed. My muscles are slowly being lulled into relaxation by Connor’s warmth, by the comfort of his familiar scent and the security of his arms wrapped tightly around me.

“But den y’might’ve thought less o’me, stalkin’ pretty girls on th’subway an’ all.”

“You did stalk me, you and Murphy both said-”

He cuts me off with a gentle kiss, stealing my breath away so I can’t finish. His fingers slide back into my hair, stroking down my neck as he releases my lips. I can feel his breath, warm and reassuring on my forehead as he continues.

“An’ den one night I get on, an’ dere ye are sure enough, sleepin’ peaceful as a lamb, yer head on th’winda. O’course, ye started cursin’ up a storm at me th’second ye woke up, but it only added t’yer charm.”

I’m too relaxed to jab Connor this time, and I lay my head on his shoulder again. My eyes slide shut as I picture the first night I ever had the courage to actually talk to him. “What would you have done if I hadn’t worked up the nerve to kiss you?”

“I woulda showed up th’next night wit’ flowers an’ asked ye out proper-like. Swept ye off yer feet.”

“But you did...picked me up and everything…” I mumble against his neck. I feel Connor’s fingers doing something with my braid, and then my hair is down, and he slowly starts to thread his fingers through the loose strands over and over until I’m practically humming with pleasure. Exhaustion from another sleepless night spreads over me, weighting my limbs and pulling down towards the sleep I’m desperately craving.

“Would happily do it again, lass, soon’s me leg’ll reliably hold us bot’ up. If ye hadn’t talked t’me, I was workin’ up me own courage t’try introducin’ meself an’ askin’ ye out th’right way. Knew if I couldn’t take me eyes off ye fer two solid months, y’were someone I wanted t’take th’time t’get t’know. Glad ye worked up yer nerve, though.”

“Me, too.”

The next thing I know, I’m being shaken gently, and Connor is murmuring, “It’s time t’meet Murph an’ Roc fer lunch; wake up, love.”

The train ride back to our neighborhood is as silent as train rides can be. Like the first time I actually spoke to Connor, there is no one else in the car except the two of us, and I can see him sneaking mischievous glances at me from time to time.

“Wearing’ jeans didn’t stop ye th’first time, lass. Sure ye don’t want t’reminisce just a wee bit?”

“That was in the middle of the night, Connor. I am not having sex on a subway car in broad daylight, regardless of the lack of other passengers.” I can’t help the smile that creeps over my face, even as my thoughts refuse to come out of the shadows they’re creeping through, and Connor seizes on the weakening in my defenses, pulling me abruptly onto his lap before I can protest.

“Maybe just a little makin’ out, den?” His lips are on mine, gentle but insistent, silencing any further dissent I might offer. His hands slide up under my sweater, flirting with the top edges of my bra, and I slip forward on his lap, grinding hard against the sudden bulge in his jeans. He’s just slipping his fingers inside the cups of my bra when the train shudders to a halt, and the door slides open, admitting not one, not two, but what looks to be five families complete with a mess of screaming and squalling children.

I jerk my sweater down and collapse onto the seat next to Connor, burying my burning face in my hands and hiding under his arm. I can hear him laughing above me and jab him sharply in the ribs, keeping my face turned resolutely away from as many of the other passengers as I can.

Short of keeping my eyes closed, though, I can’t completely escape the gaze of some of the parents. While one mother gives me a scathing glare of shocked distaste, another woman grins and gives me a thumbs up, mouthing, “Way to go!” across the car.

The next stop finally arrives, and I practically leap through the doors the second they open. Connor follows at a more leisurely pace, limping a little but smirking like no one’s business as he pulls even with me on the stairs.

“Sorry it took me so long to catch up. Couple o’th’fellas on th’train had t’congratulate me. Couldn’t disappoint me fans, now could I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt really bad about neglecting everyone for so long, so here's another one. Had to get some humor in before it was too late. Thanks for reading this far; leave some love.


	19. Chapter 19

Murphy’s arms engulf me the second I enter the diner. Connor skirts carefully around us, heading for Rocco and our usual table, but Murphy stays glued to the spot, refusing to let me move. His face is buried in my neck, and I can feel the muscles in his shoulders straining to not crush me even harder than he already is.

 

After a solid three minutes of this intensely silent embrace, Murphy finally straightens and turns my eyes to his, his hands on either side of my face holding me steadily in his gaze.

 

“No thinkin’ t’day,” he says softly, only for me. “Mean it, Grace, gonna do whatever I can t’keep ye from thinkin’. Promised ye.” He kisses me gently, his lips pressing tenderly against mine, and I very nearly ask him to keep his promise right then and there, regardless of our audience.

 

I manage to choke down a few bites of my cheeseburger, even laughing at a couple of Rocco’s jokes, but there’s an underlying tension with everyone, and nothing we do or say is quite as relaxed as we’re pretending.

 

Murphy hisses once under his breath when I accidently brush against his injured arm, but he stops my apology before I even get it halfway out. Despite his earlier bravado, Connor’s wounded leg is obviously bothering him, probably due to him dropping me in his lap on the subway and then climbing all those stairs. He has it stretched across the booth into the space between Murphy and me, and I’m careful to not jostle it. Rocco is doing his best to act inconspicuous and completely at ease despite his missing finger and the bulky bandage covering it.

 

“I swear I can still feel it,” he mutters, glaring suspiciously at the bandage as if it’s hiding his missing appendage.

 

“Told ye it ain’t dere,” Connor sighs, shifting to adjust his leg again.

 

The walk back to my apartment is slow, as we all keep pace with Connor’s painful, stilted walk. I have to physically bite my lip to keep from saying something, knowing it won’t change their minds and will only make us all even more miserable and possibly distract them when they can least afford to be distracted.

 

At the bottom of the stairs, Connor pauses, his hand on the railing. His face is paler than normal, and there’s sweat beaded across his forehead despite the cooler temperature outside, but the fierce look in his eyes keeps me from asking if he needs anything.

 

“Just gonna take a second, ye c’n all go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

 

Before any of us can move past Connor, though, the door to my super’s apartment swings open, and the building manager Mr. Cassidy steps out, carrying his toolbox. He shuts and locks his door behind him and makes for the stairs. I step back out of his way to let him pass, and he glances up to say thanks before realizing who I am.

 

“Gracie, girl, good t’see ye. Headin’ up t’yer old apartment t’fix summat.”

 

I fall into step next to him, Murphy and Rocco trailing behind us while Connor stands at the bottom of the stairs, doing his best to pretend nothing is wrong. Hanging around him after he’s asked us to go will only hurt his pride, so I opt to take him at his word and continue on.

 

“Is it the air conditioner?” I ask. “Nothing else ever broke down while I lived there. I mean, five years I was there, at least, and they’ve only had the place a couple of months before they break it?”

 

“Nah,” Mr. Cassidy says, smiling his gap-toothed smile. “Somebody kicked down th’front door, trashed th’place, took all deir valuables an’ whatnot. Dese menfolk are keepin’ ye safe in yer new place, though, aintcha, fellas?” This last question is directed at Rocco and Murphy, who readily agree with him.

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the two of them exchange a glance and stop a couple of stairs down from me. I pause and look back as they bend their heads together, having a quick but intense conversation. Rocco abruptly takes off back down the stairs, and Murphy starts up after me, snagging my elbow and propelling me past the old man.

 

“We’ll keep ‘er safe’n’sound, don’t ye worry, sir,” Murphy calls back with false cheer as we step out of the stairwell and into my hallway. I wait until we’re actually in my apartment before turning my confusion on him.

 

“What the hell was that about?” I ask as he snaps my chain and deadbolt into place. He turns, his eyes sweeping across the living room and kitchen, reaching inside his coat.

 

“Stay next t’th’door,” he snaps. “Ye hear anythin’, y’get th’fuck outta here an’ find Connor. Don’t argue wit’ me.”

 

My retort dies on my lips, and I step back from him as he draws a guns from the shoulder holster under his coat. I flatten myself against the wall next to the door, my fingers resting on the chain, ready to fling it open. I still have no idea what’s going on, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to argue with Murphy when he has that look on his face.

 

It probably takes Murphy less than two minutes to search through the few rooms and closets in my apartment, but it feels like hours before he stalks back down the hallway, holstering his gun.

 

“Can you tell me what’s going on now?” I ask hesitantly. “Is this something to do with my old apartment getting broken into?”

 

He nods, scrubbing his face with both hands and exhaling. “Sent Roc down t’tell Connor dey need t’find a payphone t’call th’FBI agent again. Ask ‘im fer some protective custody or somethin’ for ye t’night.”

 

“Call the FBI agent again? When did you call him the first time? Murphy, what is going on? So my old apartment was broken into. So what? This building gets broken into sometimes. We don’t have a very secure front door. Mr. Cassidy tries, but he can’t keep the building as fixed up as he used to. What’s with the worrying?”

 

“Y’don’t t’ink it’s a bit of a coincidence dat yer old place was broken into when th’people ye spend all yer time wit’ are out killin’ mobsters an’ pimps?” he asks slowly, an incredulous look crossing his features. “Lass, coulda very well been some of Yakavetta’s men lookin’ fer us or even lookin’ fer you fer leverage against us.”

 

“Well, no, that thought didn’t occur to me because I’m not used to the paranoid, vigilante lifestyle yet,” I mutter, pushing myself off from the wall. I feel ridiculous standing next to the door, poised to run at any second. “Besides, I’m serious. It’s probably a huge coincidence. This building gets broken into at least once every six months. I really don’t think-”

 

Murphy is in my space suddenly, his hands vice-like on my shoulders, his eyes sparking an intense electric blue. His voice is low, sharp, and well beyond discussion. “Ain’t takin’ a chance wit’ yer safety. Ye don’t get t’argue on dis, Grace. Don’t matter if yer buildin’ gets broken into every other day. It got broken into t’day of all days, yer old apartment of all places, and dat’s somethin’ I won’t just accept as coincidence. We’re gettin’ ye protection t’night. End of it.”

 

He kisses me fiercely, then releases me to stalk around the living room, checking the locks on all the windows and drawing the curtains tightly closed. He begins pacing the room, but I stand where I am, dazed by both his outburst and the kiss.

 

Shaking myself from my stupor, unsure what to do, I finally perch on an arm of the sofa and watch Murphy pace back and forth until I hear a knock at the door. Murphy is instantly alert, his gun out and cocked before I can even turn my head toward the door.

 

“Get b’hind th’sofa,” he hisses, and I obey without thinking, crouching and peering towards the door. My heart is hammering wildly in my chest, and I wonder just how much I still believe my apartment being broken into is a coincidence.

 

“Just us, Murph,” Connor’s voice sounds from the other side of the door, and Murphy immediately uncocks and lowers his gun. I let out the breath I was holding and stand as Murphy throws open the chain and bolt, letting Connor and Rocco in before shutting the door. I notice that he adds the security bar in addition to setting all the locks this time.

 

“Smecker said he’ll send dose t’ree detectives t’watch ‘er t’night, t’ones from t’station. Said he’d tell ‘em t’get here ‘bout six, say she’s a witness fer anudder case dat needs watchin’ but won’t leave her place.”

 

“Wouldn’t’a been better t’get ‘im t’take her somewhere else, just in case?” Murphy asks, his tone worried. I want to point out to both of them that she is standing right here and can hear everything they’re saying, but I have a feeling that won’t really make a dent in the conversation.

 

“Thought o’dat,” Connor admits, easing himself down on the sofa and propping his leg on the coffee table with a grimace. Instead of getting on to him or knocking his foot down, I grab a pillow from the couch, gingerly sliding it under his foot, and he offers me a tired half-smile.

 

“Rather ye be somewhere I know I c’n find ye if I need to,” he says to me, resting his fingers on my cheek for a moment.

 

“Means we gotta be outta here b’fore dey get here, though,” Murphy adds. “Dey’ll recognize us from th’station, can’t let ‘em see us. Roc, can ye go check the bags, see if dere’s anyt’in’ else we need?”

 

Rocco nods without a word, starting off down the hallway to his temporary room. After a couple of minutes of strained silence, I can’t stand the tension in the room anymore and just say the first thing that comes to mind.

 

“So...when did you guys get on speaking terms with the FBI? I thought we were avoiding Agent...Smecker, you said?”

 

“Had an...incident at church dis mornin’,” Connor says, his eyes flicking irritatedly in the direction that Rocco disappeared. “Roc was...let’s just say we had an inkling Agent Smecker’d be a good person t’talk to about our plans t’night, an’ it turned out we were right. Had his card wi’t his cell number from b’fore, wit’ the Chekov t’ing, so we talked t’him about th’hitman dat attacked us yesterday, an’ he said he’d look into it. We’re t’call ‘im t’night when we’re done.”

 

“Oh.” So now the FBI is involved with their crusade? This week just keeps getting better and better.

 

I offer Connor some of the strongest pain meds I have, short of the narcotics I was given after my injuries in December, and he takes them gratefully while Murphy continues to pace. I watch the clock creep by until around 5:20 when Rocco comes back out of the room, a duffel bag in each hand.

 

“Time t’go,” Connor says, rising slowly but surprisingly steadily from the couch.

 

No. It...I can’t…

 

Suddenly, there’s not enough air in the room. There’s not enough air in the world. Panic, thick and coppery-tasting, rises in my throat, and I turn from them, my fingers clutching hard at the back of the sofa just to keep myself upright. The room spins, and I close my eyes, forcing my unwilling lungs to function.

 

 _Get your shit together, you cannot do this to them. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth…in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm down and breathe_.

 

After a solid minute of breathing exercises and trembling, I straighten and turn to the three men facing me solemnly.

 

“Come back to me,” I manage to say with a surprisingly steady voice. “That’s not a request, and there are no other options. All of you come back to me.”

 

Years later, I will remember every detail of my goodbye to the twins: what their stubble felt like against my face as they hugged me at the same time; the smell of cologne, cigarettes, and gunpowder that lingered in their coats; the tightness of their arms around me; the press of their lips on my damp cheeks; but I have no recollection whatsoever of what any of us says to each other.

 

I turn to face my friend, my stomach in so many knots I don’t know if I could throw up even if I wanted to. Rocco meets my eyes with a sad smile, and I feel the tears on my cheeks turn from a trickle to a steady stream. Without a word, he holds his arms out to me, and I stand on my toes, my own arms tight around his neck.

 

“You know I love you, right?” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say to him. I can’t give him justification for what he’s doing, I can’t comfort him or give him any advice that will make this easier.

 

He squeezes me tighter than he ever has before and places a kiss on my cheek. “Love ya, hun,” he whispers. Then he stoops to grab the bags from the floor by his feet.

 

“Th’detectives’ll be here not long from now,” Connor reminds me as he shrugs on his coat. Don’t let ‘em in ‘til dey show you deir IDs. Dolly, Duffy, an’ Greenly, good lads all. They’re th’ones helpin’ Smecker on th’case. Murph, ye got it?”

 

Connor reaches past me, taking something Murphy offers him and holding it out to me. It’s a gray, plastic object about eight inches long, thick and rectangular with prongs on the ends. If it had an antenna, I’d almost think it’s some sort of radio, but I have a feeling communication is not what the boys have in mind.

 

“Stun gun,” Connor says shortly. “Hit th’safety dere, make sure th’prongs are touchin’ whoever ye want t’take out, and pull the trigger button. Keep it pressed against th’person fer four or five seconds, if ye can.”

 

“O...okay,” I say, numbly accepting the weapon from Connor. “Is it that simple? I don’t-”

 

“Ye won’t need it, love, dis is worst case scenario,” Murphy interjects. “Th’ detectives’ll be here; ye won’t have any trouble. An’ ye have th’ cash, still. First train t’New York, if we give ye th’call. If we don’t, if it goes t’plan, we’ll call ye t’night t’let ye know we’re okay, an’ again when we get t’th’city t’morra.”

 

I don’t want to ask my last question, the one I’ve been avoiding even thinking about all day, but I realize I won’t get another chance if I don’t ask it now.

 

“When will I see you again?”

 

Connor and Murphy share one of those silent conversations before turning back to me. For the first time since we’ve been together, I am on the same wavelength as them because I swear I actually get what they’re thinking. They have no idea when we’ll be together after this, and they’re terrified to say it aloud.

 

I nod slowly, feeling the beginnings of breathlessness again. Instead of speaking, I pull them to me one at time, first Connor then Murphy, and place a kiss on each of their lips before releasing them and shoving gently in the direction of the door.

 

“Go before the detectives get here and recognize you. I love you.”

 

“Love ye, lass.” Together, of course.

 

Rocco starts to move past me, following the twins as he always does, but I grab him before he makes it past me. I have to physically fight the urge to restrain him and keep him from walking out the door at all. I cling to my friend with all my might, terror and guilt ripping my insides apart. If I let him go, knowing what’s going to happen, is that the same as making it happen?

 

Rocco’s arms come around me one last time, and he pulls me close as the twins watch impassively from the hallway.

 

“Ain’t yer fault, hun. Gotta do what I gotta do, right? Take care of these stupid micks for me.”

 

He pulls out of my embrace long before I’m ready to let him go, and all I can do is watch them disappear down the hallway without looking back. I have enough presence of mind to shut and lock the door and replace the security bar underneath the door handle.

 

Clutching the stun gun to my chest, I lean against the wall, sliding until I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the front door, listening to the silence reverberating through my empty apartment.

 

I expect tears to come, but they don’t. I expect the pain to shoot through my chest. I expect to start screaming and not stop until I see all three of them safe and whole again, but I don’t. I sit, the deadened and dazed lack of sensation spreading over my nerves and through my thoughts until all that’s left is the sight of the floor underneath me and the stun gun in my hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not going to be very funny from here on out. If you're not familiar with the movie itself...I don't know if I should tell to to go watch it now or two wait until after you read this bit. Because...it's kind of...Spoilers. Let me know if you want me to keep going with this. Thank you for reading. As always, thanks to bleedingrose0688, who probably read through this chapter as many times as I did, and Siarh, both of whom have fantastic stories that need to be checked out ASAP.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: Apparently I posted one chapter without posting (draft) and posted another twice, and I've fixed that now, so before you read this, just double check that 16-19 look familiar, as if you've read them.  
> -Many apologies for lateness. Famlial excuses (seriously, they were here for over a week) and a mild depressive episode that made me want to trash the whole story and be done with it or just drop rocks on all the characters so they can't bother me anymore.  
> \- Thanks to Siarh for convincing me not the delete the entire story. She's over on Fanfiction.net and has some great stories of her own.  
> \- As always, huge thanks to bleedingrose0688, also on Fanfiction.net with a fantastic Boondock Saints story (much detail, so backstory, many wow), who probably read over this chapter as many times as I did.  
> \- New thank you to Debbief722 for lighting a fire under me to get this posted. I needed it.  
> If you like what you're reading and would like me to keep going, please just drop a word or two about what you thought of the chapter. Seriously, reviews remind me the story isn't as terrible as my brain is trying to convince me. Thanks for sticking with me this far.

“Ms. Stevens, are you home? This is Detective Greenly, Boston P.D. Can you come to the door, please?”

 

 _The accent is strong with this one_ , I think as I climb to my feet. The numb sensation only lasted as long as it took me to get my breathing completely under control and oxygen flowing properly through my body again, and I’ve spent the last few minutes just sitting on the floor, looking over the stun gun and familiarizing myself with the feel of it while I wait for the detectives to arrive. I’m strangely calm, which is probably good, as I don’t want these cops to think I’m as crazy as I feel right now.

 

I look through the peephole and see three men, two in trench coats and one in a black leather jacket, standing awkwardly together in the hallway, but I can’t tell much else about them through the warped view of the peephole.

 

“Could you please hold your IDs up so I can see them?” I say clearly, my eye glued to the tiny window. One at a time, they come forward and hold their picture ID up so I can verify their identities, although the tallest one in the leather coat has to be elbowed by the one with the goatee before he does it.

 

“Just a moment,” I call, hastily stowing the stun gun in my purse. I’m not fully informed on the legalities of possessing something like this, but I know for a fact I couldn’t answer any questions about it or its origins with anything like a decent poker face, so I’d rather just keep it out of sight. 

 

I quickly unchain the door and throw open the deadbolt, opening the door to the three detectives and stepping aside so they can enter.

 

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting like that; it’s just that Agent Smecker gave me specific instructions. Said I wasn’t supposed to trust just anyone.”

 

“Not at all,” one of the detectives - Duffy, I think is his name - offers, smiling gently. He has kind eyes, I think randomly, but then I realize he’s still speaking. “We wanted to introduce ourselves so you know who’s watching out for you, but Detective Dolly and I are going to stay in the car downstairs and keep an eye on the entrance of the building while Detective Greenly stays up here with you. Agent Smecker asked us as a personal favor since he’s helping us out with our own investigation.”

 

“David,” the taller detective in leather interjects suddenly. His face is a little pink, and he has a tiny, goofy kind of smile on his face. “You can call me David.”

 

“I’ve never had to do anything like this,” I admit sheepishly after a moment of awkward silence. “If you can stay up here at least a few minutes, I could make you some coffee and sandwiches to take down with you, especially if you’re going to be down there all night. Is that...is that allowed?”

 

Duffy, apparently the spokesperson of this group, agrees and thanks me while Detective Greenly - David - hangs up his coat on a hook next to my door and immediately plants himself on the sofa. Detective Dolly stands awkwardly in the kitchen while I set up the coffee pot and get out my cheese and deli meat.

 

I glance at his ID, clipped neatly next to his tie, and ask him, “Is it alright that I called you Detective Dolly? That’s what Agent Smecker said, and I used process of elimination to figure out it was you, but I don’t think I can say your full name. I’m not the best with pronunciation.”

 

Dolly takes the block of cheddar from me, smiling as he says, “Not a problem, ma’am. No one ever gets it right. Need a hand?”

 

Sighing and rolling his eyes at his partners, Duffy turns to me and says apologetically, “Just protocol, but I’m going to take a quick look around your place and get the layout, make sure it’s secure. Is that alright, Ms. Stevens?”

 

“It’s Grace, and sure.” He starts off down the hallway, and I have a sudden thought. “Detective Duffy, I’ve had a friend staying over for a few days. He...his girlfriend kicked him out, so he moved some of his stuff into the spare room; that’s why it’s such a mess in there.”

 

“Should we expect him tonight?” Detective Duffy asks, pausing with his hand on the doorknob of my bedroom as he glances back at me.

 

I shake my head silently. This man is alert, far more so than his partners I think, and I need to be careful what I say around him if I don’t want anything to slip. The less said, the better. Hopefully, they won’t ask me any details about the case I’m supposed to be a witness for. I’m not sure if they’re allowed to, but I guess if they do I can just say I’m not supposed to talk about it.

 

I have a moment of disassociation again, shocked that I’m processing things so rationally right now. I should be blubbering and stammering, not able to get a coherent sentence or thought out, and yet here I am, entertaining three police detectives mere minutes after saying goodbye to the men they’re hunting.

 

After a couple of minutes, it seems to occur to Greenly that he should follow his partner’s example, and he takes off after Duffy, ostensibly checking out the layout of my apartment. Fifteen minutes later, Dolly and I have made a stack of sandwiches for all three detectives and filled up a thermos with a couple of pots of coffee.

 

Just before stepping out, Detective Duffy turns back and regards me seriously for a moment before saying, “Be sure to secure the door behind us. If you need anything, just tell Detective Greenly. He can radio for me an’ Dolly; we’re right downstairs.”

 

“Thank you, Detective. I do appreciate what you’re doing, I’m just...out of sorts tonight, I’m sorry.”

 

He smiles again, and his eyes soften a little. “It’s Brian. Call us if you need anything. Greenly, check your radio, make sure it’s working.” Then he and Detective Dolly exit my apartment, and I shut and lock the door behind him. After a moment’s hesitation, I wedge the security bar into place before turning back to check on my

 

David grudgingly digs around in his jacket, pulling out a large, hand-held radio. He turns it on, checks the volume dial, and promptly sets the radio on my kitchen table. He picks up his plate of sandwiches and chips before heading back to the living room. He settles back on the couch, his mouth full and his eyes searching around the room for something.  

 

Before he can ask, I set the remote on the coffee table next to his plate, and he smiles his thanks before flicking on the television. He immediately changes the channel to the replay that’s just starting of last night’s hockey game, an action that doesn’t surprise me in the least.

 

“You watch the game last night?” he asks around a mouthful of ham and wheat bread.

 

I shake my head silently, sitting down in the armchair at the far end of the sofa. I get a sudden flash of Rocco in the same position from my dream and stand as abruptly as if I’ve been ejected from my seat by a giant spring.

 

Greenly eyes me cautiously, chewing for a moment before asking, “You alright, ma’am?”

 

“I’m fine, it’s just...been a long...month,” I finish lamely. _Cover, girl, think of something else to say._ “Why don’t you tell me more about the game so I have a better idea what’s going on. I don’t follow hockey all that closely, so I’m going to need lots of details.”

 

His face lights up like I’ve just announced fresh donuts will be delivered to his precinct daily, and he launches into an excited explanation about everything from general hockey rules to the specific records of each player involved in last night’s game. The game continues in the background, with Greenly happily commenting on random plays as well as throwing in various bits of trivia that I could never possibly hope to understand. I only process a small fraction of what he’s saying, and I remember even less.

 

“And Bourque scores! How many defense players ya know can score as smooth as that man there on the ice? Future hall of famer, right there, mark my words.”

 

I nod gravely in agreement, absolutely clueless about anything he just said besides the word score. I’m pretty sure that means the puck went in the other team’s net. I cast around the room, growing antsy and looking for something to pass the time. I briefly consider going to bed, but the last thing I want is to lie awake for hours in my giant empty bed, staring at the ceiling and not sleeping.

 

Again.

 

So I settle in to listen to Greenly talk about hockey, resigned that there is literally nothing else to do besides worry myself to death. Finally, the game reaches a break between periods, and Greenly stands, asking if I have any more sandwich stuff in the kitchen.

 

“I’ll get it, don’t worry. You’re taking time from your night when you could be home watching the game properly instead of babysitting me.” He laughs, grinning in what I’m sure he thinks of as a charming way, and I take his plate and return to the kitchen.

 

As I start pulling food from the fridge again, I hear what sounds like a quiet conversation taking place behind me. I glance around, startled, and my eyes fall on the radio sitting on my kitchen table. The television has been so loud that I couldn’t hear the chatter until I was right next to it.

 

Thinking the other two detectives are trying to get Greenly’s attention, I grab the radio and take a step towards the living room only to freeze as I hear the word “Yakavetta” over the handset. Glancing in the living room, I see Greenly is perfectly content arguing with the commentators on the screen about the statistics they’re discussing and not paying a bit of attention to what I’m doing in the kitchen.

 

I turn away quickly, setting the radio in front of me on the counter as I continue to fix another couple of sandwiches (good thing I’m used to buying so much food) and bend down to listen more closely to the conversation transmitting over the speaker.

 

“--don’t’ know where I put it. I just want to check the details of the surveillance report. They’ve had Yakavetta’s house on watch for months now, longer than this whole shit storm’s been going on. Since a lot of Yakavetta’s guys are the ones getting taken out, I want to see if surveillance noticed anything before that might be helpful, like somethin’ on some of the guys who’ve been killed. We’re just sitting here, might as well get something done.”

 

“I didn’t have the file last, saw Greenly lookin’ at it on the way over here. Maybe he’s got it.”

 

The two detectives in the car must not realize their radio is set to transmit everything they’re saying. I have no idea how walkie talkies work, so I guess maybe they somehow hit a wrong switch? I don’t care how I’m hearing their conversation, though; what’s important is that they’re talking about the man Connor, Murphy, and Rocco are going after and the place they’re going to do so. Feeling like my heart’s in my throat, I lean a little closer and turn the volume a hair louder.

 

“Smecker said something about more guys being at Yakavetta’s place than usual, real heavy guns. I wanted to see if there was anything in the report about who it might be. Yakavetta’s gotta be nervous about everything that’s been going down, so I bet he called in most of his guys that were out in the field. I wanted to see if we got any IDs on ‘em, see if there’s someone we might have a warrant on or if any of the dead guys showed up at the house more than anyone else, see if there’s a connection we’re not making. Might give us cause to go in and search the place.” This must be Duffy talking; of the three of them, he seems to be the one to take initiative.

 

“You sure you ain’t just tryin’ to score points with Smecker by lookin’ clever?”

 

“Fuck you, where’s the fuckin’ file?”

 

“I told you already, Greenly had it last. Ask him.”

 

It takes me a second to sort through rapidly descending panic to realize they’re about to call over the radio on purpose. I plate the sandwiches and take them and the radio over to David, handing both off to him. He looks up at me curiously.

 

“I heard them talking, and one of them said your name. I think-”

 

“Greenly, do you copy?” the radio interrupts.

 

“Yeah, what d’ya want?” he asks, his eyes already leaving me for the TV as he reaches for a sandwich.

 

“Do you have the surveillance file from the other case?” Duffy sounds impatient, and I wonder how common this sort of conversation is amongst the three of them. He seems to have to do a bit of reminding for his partners; I can definitely relate to that.

 

“Yeah, I got it, but Smecker told us to stay put once we were in place. You can’t wait til the morning to look at it? Ain’t like you can do anything about it tonight.” He unconcernedly stuffs half a sandwich in his mouth as the second period of the game starts up.

 

There’s a long pause over the radio, and if air silence could sound irritated, this pause would definitely fit the bill.

 

“Jackass. Fine. I’ll look at it in the morning. And pay attention to your assignment and quit watchin’ the fuckin’ game.”

 

The radio goes fully silent, and I suppose they must have switched it off properly this time. Detective Greenly glances at me, and I force a smile and shrug. Here’s hoping he’s not paying enough attention to see the sheer terror I’m trying desperately to concern.

 

“If you want to keep an eye on things out here, I’m just going to do a couple of things in my bedroom. If you finish your sandwiches before I come back, help yourself to anything in the fridge.” At least my voice didn’t shake.

 

Before he can say anything, I turn and scurry quickly to my bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind me. I lean against the door, my face falling into my open hands as my breathing speeds up along with my heart.

 

Okay.

 

Okay, breathe. Do not panic. Everything is fine, this is a situation that can be handled. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to lose my shit over.

 

The guys are just walking blindly into a deathtrap, that’s all.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter for being so wonderfully patient. If the thoughts in this chapter seem to shift point of view or jump tense a lot, that's mostly intentional. I won't claim all of it, as I know I make mistakes, but most all of the jumps are meant to seem frantic and disjointed.
> 
> Also, so everyone's prepared, I'm going to try to have the next chapter up in a week, btu it might be two weeks. I've got a really heavy block in place, and I don't want to post much more until I can muscle through. Thank you so much for all your support, it means the world to me. Many thanks to everyone who had a looksee over this one before I posted it (bleedingrose0688 and Siarh, y'all rock).

I throw a silent fit in the middle of my bedroom, feeling the beginnings of a full-blown panic attack taking over.

 

 _Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth…in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm down and breathe_.

 

Bloody images of Rocco and Connor and Murphy dance frantically across my vision until I’m so dizzy I can’t stand anymore. I drop into a shuddering heap on my bed, clutching the top of my head to keep it from detaching, and suck in frenzied gulps of air. I can’t lose control, I absolutely can NOT. I need to- No, I _have_ to do something to help them somehow, but what?

 

I can’t exactly tell the detectives what’s going on; I have no idea how much Agent Smecker has told them, and from what I’ve seen so far, they have no clue what’s actually going on.

 

I don’t have Agent Smecker’s contact information, so that’s a no-go. So what the hell do I have?

 

I have a stun gun that I’ve never used. I have three cops ostensibly watching out for me but who, in reality, are basically keeping me trapped in my own apartment. I have three idiots who mean the world to me and are about to be ambushed and slaughtered while I sit here, knowing it’s coming and doing nothing to stop it.

 

In a fit of pique and near-hysteria, I seize the alarm clock on the bedside table, about to send it flying across the room, when I stop, staring at the small electronic device clutched in my hand.

 

This is the clock that Rocco gave me for Christmas, when he took care of me for those three weeks the twins basically abandoned me when I was injured. He saw mine was broken and figured I’d need a new one, so instead of asking me about the broken clock, he just got me a replacement. One of those rare moments of clarity that makes Rocco so...Rocco. I can’t throw it, no matter how freaked out I am.

 

_Think, dammit!_

 

Okay, what did the cops say... There are extra guys at Yakavetta’s house, people he’s called in. How did Duffy put it? Heavy guns? There is a surveillance report that has information specifically about the house where Connor, Murphy, and Rocco are going. Rocco would know who those “heavy guns” are, know what they’re capable of, and he and the boys would be better prepared for what’s waiting for them if I could get the file to them. Except I don’t know where to go; it’s not like “Papa Joe Yakavetta” is just going to be listed in the phone book. I’d have to look somewhere official, like-

 

Like a police surveillance report on his house.

 

I laugh suddenly, thrown off from my train of desperate thought by how genuinely absurd the idea I’ve just had truly is. Me, chasing through South Boston in the middle of the night with a stun gun and a stolen police report to save my vigilante boyfriends and best friend from the maffia. It’s like a bad John Grisham novel.

 

Yeah, this situation makes total sense. 

 

Besides, I’d still have to deal with the detectives. Even if I could somehow get away from Greenly, there’s still the two detectives down in the car...watching the front entrance…

 

On the opposite side of the building from my fire escape.

 

I turn to my dresser mirror, my reflection pale and wide-eyed with shock. My heart rate is startlingly normal, and my breathing is calmer than it’s been for most of the day. As I stare at myself, I realize that my shoulders are set, and despite my semi-panicked expression, I look determined as hell.

 

“Holy shit,” I whisper. Am I really going to do this?

 

Judging by the affirmative nod my reflection gives, I guess I am.

…

When I finally emerge from my bedroom, I have something that vaguely resembles a plan. Connor might even approve, if it weren’t me that’s attempting this insanity. I have to shove my hands deep in my pockets to keep them from shaking. Even if I somehow manage to pull this deranged scheme off, I’m still most likely looking at prison time for assaulting a police officer. I’d definitely lose my job, and my life as I know it would be over. 

 

Who am I kidding? I haven’t had my life as I knew it for days now. At least this way I might still be in time to save Rocco.

 

Detective Greenly glances up from the sofa and raises an eyebrow. “Slipped into somethin’ more comfortable?”

 

Yeah, he definitely thinks he’s charming. Bless his heart; he’s never going to forgive me.

 

“Something like that,” I say, returning his smile. I changed from my sweater and jeans to a pair of black sweat pants and one of the boys’ black turtlenecks. Conspicuous indoors, especially for me when I hardly ever wear black, but much better for creeping around outside in the dark.

 

“Need anything from the kitchen while I’m up?”

 

“Nah, I’m good. If you want, I can catch you up on the scores that you missed.”

 

I don't’ know how, but I somehow managed to feign a look of sincere interest as I casually walk over to my purse. “Sure, David. Now, tell me again what those numbers mean?” I point to the screen, and the second his attention turns from me, I whip the stun gun out and tuck it my pants pocket.

 

Instead of sitting in the arm chair again, I join Greenly on the sofa, ignoring the pang of guilt in my stomach at his pleased grin. I let him waffle on for a while, tossing in a “yep” and an occasional “tell me more”. I carefully observe him as he animatedly flails his way through more details of the game and decide the file most likely isn’t physically on him. He’s just wearing a button up and slacks; there’s nowhere to hide something like a file folder or anything with a lot of pages. The file must be in his jacket. The radio in front of us stays blessedly silent, and a thought occurs to me.

 

“Do you have to check in with your partners?” I ask suddenly. From the confused look on his face, I can tell this has absolutely nothing to do with whatever Greenly was just explaining to me.

 

“I’m sorry,” I apologize immediately. “I know you’re on top of things and were probably about to do that anyway. I just...I worry really easily, what with this whole...case that I’m...well, I can’t really talk about what happened, but I wanted to make sure everything is going like it’s supposed to. I didn’t…” I trail off, turning a worried, semi-desperate expression on David that is actually almost entirely truthful. It’s almost eight o’clock, and if I want to get to the guys before they go in, I’m going to have to leave as soon as possible.

 

His expression softens immediately, and he smiles reassuringly, patting my hand just a tad awkwardly, his fingers lingering on mine just a tiny bit too long. “You don’t gotta worry about nothin’. I’ll check in with the guys, but they would’ve radioed us if somethin’ was goin’ on.”

 

“Thanks so much, David. I really appreciate it.” God, I’m making myself nauseated. I had no idea I was capable of acting like this. “Say, did you want some sort of dessert? I can see what I have stashed away in the freezer for a rainy day.”

 

“Sure thing. Lemme check in with the Duffy and Dolly, and maybe I can give you a hand.”

 

God forgive me.

 

I open the freezer, listening closely to his brief conversation with the other detectives, but nothing is out of the ordinary, so they’re off the radio after only a few seconds. True to his word, Greenly immediately stands and comes over to see what he can help with. Thinking fast, I turn and point to my highest cabinet.

 

“I’m sorry to ask you, but since you’re here, I always have the darndest time getting my mixing bowl down from the top shelf in there. Do you think you could grab it for me?” Never mind how I got it up there in the first place if I can’t get it down. I doubt that thought will occur to David, though.

 

“At your service, ma’am,” he grins, turning and reaching for the cabinet handle. As he reaches up, before I can think too long or talk myself out of it, I pull out the stun gun, flick off the safety, and jab it hard into David’s lower back, pulling the trigger.

 

His face contorts in pain, and he opens his mouth as if to scream, but no sound comes out. He jerks against the counter, his arms flailing, but I keep the weapon pressed against him as long as I can until he drops to the floor in a twitching heap.

 

 _Oh, God, oh, God; please don’t let me have killed him_.

 

I stare at him in disbelief for several seconds before realizing I need to check and see if he’s even still breathing. I crouch over the prone detective, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps as I watch for signs of life. I almost faint with relief when I see his chest rising and falling. Just to be sure, though, I check the pulse in his neck, and it seems steady.

 

Because I have so much medical expertise to know what’s normal…

 

I lay the stun gun on the counter carefully, then grasp Greenly under his shoulders and heave with all my strength. I manage a couple of inches, so I keep trying, dragging him as best I can though he outweighs me by who knows how much.

 

After a few minutes of struggling, I finally get him to the hall closet and somehow manage to shove him inside. I arrange him carefully on his side, just in case he throws up or something, and prop his back against the wall of the closet. I shut the door firmly and turn the lock. With Greenly taken care of, I pick up the radio from the coffee table and switch it off. I don’t think David will be waking any time soon, but I’ll do anything I can to keep him from contacting the detectives in the car just a little longer.

 

I have to stop for a second and grab the back of the couch as a wave of dizziness washes over me. My head is spinning, and I know I need to slow my breathing down. I’m just as insane as the boys; what the hell was I thinking, starting this? Assaulting a police officer, shoving him in a closet-

 

_STOP IT. You have people to save. Focus. What next? What do you need to do next?_

 

The file. I hope to God it’s got the information I need to find the guys. I probably should’ve made sure of that before I attacked a police officer and wrongfully imprisoned him, but it’s a bit late for second thoughts now. Not to mention, I don’t know if I’d have been able to just casually search David’s jacket with him sitting right there on the couch.

 

I snatch his coat from the hooks, opening it and ripping the folded file from the inner pocket. The first page of the report is a brief dossier on Yakavetta, complete with a picture. I learn very quickly that his real first name is actually Giuseppe instead of Joe, he is not as nearly old as I always pictured him from Rocco’s stories, that he has a son who is currently out of the country for unknown reasons, and that the Boston PD has been keeping surveillance on his house for months now. And there’s his address.

 

Oh, thank God.

 

The rest of the file contains details of different people’s comings and goings, as well as what looks like summarized dossiers on a lot of the men spotted at the house and transcripts of the few conversations they’ve been able to record. Good grief, the boys should just set up camp there and wait for all these guys show up; it’d save them months of hunting and trouble. I’m having a very hard time believing that all this information has basically just been dropped in my lap.

 

If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was somehow meant to happen.

 

I slap the file shut, folding it lengthwise and clutching it tightly as my thoughts whirl frantically. Okay, I need the stun gun. I need a jacket. I need...how am I actually going to get there? I have no idea where this address actually is in town, although I can guess one of the nicer parts, all of which are quite a ways out. I mean, the guys were planning on at least an hour’s worth of time to get there, judging by when they had been planning on leaving originally. So I need money for a cab.

 

I find a dark hoodie with a zippered front pocket designed for jogging (because I’m such an avid jogger) in my closet and shove my arms hastily into the sleeves. Sprinting back to the kitchen, I grab the stun gun and stick it in the pocket of my jacket after checking to make sure the safety is back on.

 

After grabbing the envelope of cash from my purse, I zip the pocket closed and look around my apartment to take stock. The security bar is still stuck tightly under the locked handle of the front door. Detective Greenly is still locked in the hall closet, and from the sound of things, he might even be snoring a little.

 

I highly doubt he’d be able to get enough leverage in there to kick the door open, but just to be safe, I take one of my kitchen chairs and wedge the back under the closet door knob.

 

“I’m sorry, David,” I say softly, frowning at the closet door. I hurry to the living room, unlatching the window that leads to the fire escape and sliding it up just enough to slip outside. I take the time to reach inside and pull the curtains closed, lowering the window sill so my exit is hopefully not immediately obvious to whoever makes it into the apartment first.

 

I do my best to navigate the fire escape silently, certain with every creaking step I take that someone will hear me or look outside and think I’m someone trying to break in and call the police. I finally make it to the ground, dropping the last few feet from the ladder to the alley floor with a quiet thud. I glance to my left in the direction of the front of the building and the other two detectives, then take off at top speed to the other end of the alley, emerging onto a sidewalk and immediately moving over to the curb to wait for a taxi.

 

I manage to snag one after only a couple of minutes, sliding in and gasping out the address.

 

“That’s a bit of a ride, hun, almost forty-five minutes. You sure?” the driver asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I think of the money currently stuffed in the front pocket of my jacket, and then the sight of my three guys, lined up bloody and mangled in my dream, flashes through my mind.

 

“There’s a hundred dollar tip in it for you if you can make it in thirty,” I say, holding up two of the bills so he can see I’m not lying. I ignore the resulting honks as the cabbie peels out into traffic and sit back in the seat, trying to figure out what the hell I’m actually going to do when I get where I’m going.


	22. Chapter 22

“You sure this is where ya meant to end up, sweetheart?”

 

I’m standing at the bottom of Giuseppe “Papa Joe” Yakavetta’s driveway, gaping at the sight before me. There is a wrought iron fence that seems to run the length of the property in either direction, meeting on either side of the driveway at two impressive stone columns that support an iron gate. I imagine the gate is typically shut and locked, but tonight it hangs wide open.

 

“Uh...yeah, sorry. Thanks for the lift. Here’s the fare and tip.”

 

“You...want me to wait around for you? Ya got a lift back to town?”

 

I appreciate that he’s concerned, but I have no idea what’s going to happen next. It’d attract way more attention than I need right now for a cab to just be sitting on the road next to the house. Assuming it hasn’t already attracted attention. And I should be able to get a ride back into town with the guys, but...what if…

 

“I’ve got it from here, thanks. Have a good night.”

 

As the driver pulls away into the darkness, I slip through the gate and into the shadows next to the driveway, hoping very hard that Yakavetta doesn’t have any sort of video surveillance that would alert him to my presence.

 

This is way too much like a movie.

 

 _Or a fairytale_ , I think as I freeze in place, staring in shock at the castle that has come into view as I climb the driveway. The enormous stone structure stretches up several stories and out in a few different directions, and I can’t help but be impressed that the Boston PD was able to get as much surveillance information on it as they have.

 

And either the grounds are really quiet, or I just can’t hear anything else over the drumming of my heart.

 

There are a few cars parked along the driveway that I manage to stay fairly hidden behind as I continue to creep up to the house. My stomach cramps hard enough that I have to stop and catch my breath before continuing on.

 

How the hell I’m supposed to find the guys on a property this huge is beyond me. Despite the nausea and pain and lightheadedness, I force myself to think as clearly as I can. What would they do?

 

I know my guys. They wouldn’t go in the front door; Connor’s plan would never allow for something so mundane and obvious. For lack of any better ideas presenting themselves, I decide to follow the branch of driveway that splits off and winds around to the side of the building where there is an empty, covered carport and a side entrance into the house itself.

 

An entrance whose door is hanging wide open. That’s two things so far that should probably be securely shut but are very much not. And there’s no telling why they’re hanging open, anything could have happened inside, and the boys could be-

 

 _Okay, stop. Breathe. Focus. Think_.

 

So, maybe they’re already here? Is this the way they went in? Should I keep looking around for another entrance? I listen hard for several seconds, but I can’t hear anything, not from the house or the grounds. Having lived in Southie for the last several years, the absolute quiet stillness of the night is unnerving, and my already deafening heartbeat kicks the tempo up a few notches. I don’t know what I’m listening for, but whatever it is I don’t hear it.

 

No sounds from the house, no movement in any of the lit up windows that I can see, and a doorway hanging open. I don’t want to waste time searching the entire grounds and still not be able to find them. This is the only clue I have so far to where something might be happening in the house.

 

I guess I’m going in.

 

I freeze suddenly as I set my foot on the edge of the driveway. My chest tightens with excruciating suddenness, and my throat constricts, cutting off my air supply. For what seems like a full minute, I can’t pull in any air. I am about to literally do the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, and my body and brain are in full revolt against me taking even one more step towards the house.

 

But I don’t see what other choice I could make. Not going in will definitely result in Rocco and possibly one or both of the twins dying. Going in will possibly result in me dying, but I still might be able to save them.

 

First, though, I have to figure out how to breathe again.

 

Several minutes of frozen panic eventually thaw into a barely controlled breathing regimen. _In, count to three. Out, count to three. Repeat until muscles obey mental commands again._  With trembling fingers, I just manage to unzip the pocket on my jacket my pocket and pull out the stun gun. A tiny voice in my head that sounds an awful lot like one of the twins reminds me to switch off the safety. I know I won’t be much use against someone with an actual gun, but if I can sneak up on them I might have a chance if I’m ready.

 

I force my quaking leg muscles into submission, taking a few stumbling steps forward before I finally seem to have control over them again. I creep hesitantly across the driveway to the open door. The house is lit up, so I have no trouble seeing inside, but that also means I’m going to be terribly easy to spot. I crouch as low as I can while still being able to move forward and slip through the open doorway. My sneakers slap quietly on the black and white tile of the entryway, and despite my extreme state of distraction, I have to marvel for a moment at the richness of the decor around me.

 

Everything is wood paneling, tile, and antiques, like I’m in some British manor house or a museum. I went on a fieldtrip once in elementary school to an old mansion built back in Colonial times by one of the wealthy British families that came over back in the day; it had been restored to all its sumptuous splendor and was open as a museum for tours. At the time, I’d never seen anything as expensive or intimidatingly impressive, in terms of housing.

 

This place makes that mansion look like something off of skid row.

 

Shoving the thought from my mind, I take in as much of my surroundings as I can, looking for any sign that the guys are nearby. There’s an open door to my right and a hallway that leads off to my left. Straight in front of me is what looks like a sitting area. As I start to step forward into the checkered entryway, I glance down and see a couple of dark red splotches on the tile. I look in front of me, then to my left, and spot a couple more dark red drips going in that direction. Or coming from that direction. I turn and look back out the open doorway and onto the steps, and sure enough, there are a few drips there that I didn’t notice in my distraction as I was coming in.

 

Okay...okay, so...someone was hurt but alive, and they left. Or hurt, but alive when they came in.  I crouch down, very tentatively sticking the tip of my finger in one of the tacky droplets. The blood is sticky and almost pasty, like halfway dried paint. So, that must mean…

 

I don’t even know what that means. I don’t know how fast blood dries. I don’t know whose blood this is. I have no fucking clue why I just stuck my finger in a spot of blood on the floor, as if I’m some sort of crime scene expert. All I can do is keep looking. I have to find them.

 

Hesitantly, my breath coming in shallow wheezes that I desperately try to quiet, I shuffle forward until I can peek beyond the entryway. I peer forward into the sitting area and look to my right, only to do an immediately double-take.

 

I think...I think there are two bodies in the corner.

 

My eyes slam shut, and I reflexively gulp hard against the abrupt need to vomit. Luckily, I haven’t eaten anything since lunch, so it’s easier to fight the nausea.

 

I force my eyes open and look back to the pair. There is a woman in a short black dress and high heels, her dark blonde hair a wild tangle around her head, sprawled face down on the floor. Above her, a man sits in a wingback chair, staring straight ahead with his throat-

 

Oh, God.

 

I bite my lip hard, dragging my eyes away from the man’s bloody, sliced throat and backtrack quickly to the open door I bypassed. A couple of steps lead down into a dark room, and I really don’t want to check it out, but since it’s right here, I might as well glance in the room to make sure none of the guys are in there...in a dark room...right next to two dead bodies.

 

 _Knock it off. Get your shit together_.

 

I didn’t think to bring a flashlight, so I creep quietly down the steps and peer around the corner cautiously, trying to make out something in the low light. As my eyes adjust, I realize the shape on the floor is another man lying on his back. In the dark, the pool of liquid under him is black, but I don’t feel the urge to turn on the light and find out exactly what’s wrong with him. Besides, he isn’t one of mine.

 

I stumble quickly back up the short flight of steps and start forward, my eyes flicking to a fancy curving staircase that leads upstairs. A staircase that unsurprisingly has yet another dead body sprawled next to the bottom step. His arms and legs are flung wide, his face a mask of shock with his wide-open dead eyes locked on the ceiling. Dark red spreads out over his chest from the hole in his shirt, and I once more find myself fighting hard against my stomach’s instinctive reaction to the situation.

 

I don’t know what to do, I can’t...the smell here is…

 

Okay, breathe. Look for the blood splatter. Someone most likely got out. Where did they come from? That’s all I’ve got to go on, so I have to...to ignore the slaughter house and keep looking.

 

I glance back down at the floor, swaying slightly, and see another, larger splash of blood that leads off to my left. I take a couple of unsteady steps in that direction, listening with all my might and keeping my eyes glued to the floor for more signs of the blood trail. On my left, there’s a staircase going down underneath the one that leads up, and I spy a few more dark red stains on the top step and landing next to me.

 

Okay, going down. That makes sense. Because the layers of hell get worse as you go down, right?

 

I don’t know how I make it down the steps. My knees are jelly, my feet are nerveless, and I can barely hold on to the stun gun gripped in my deadened fingers. I find myself in a wide expanse of gray paneling and cinder blocks, and the concrete floors have drains every few feet. The glaring lights overhead are bright, uncovered bulbs that light up every corner of the room. There are some shelves and something on the wall at the far end of the room that I don’t quite take in as my attention is arrested by the continuing trail of blood. The dark red spatter continues across the room and to the left. A green door on the corner of the room opens inward, and the trail leads straight into (or out of) that room. 

 

I shove my sleeves up past my elbows and jerk on the neck of my shirt, suddenly feeling way too hot and constricted. I never wear turtlenecks, I should’ve just gotten a sweater or something, I wasn’t thinking when I left my apartment. I should’ve taken time to plan this better, to read through the file more, see if there was any information on-

 

I have to go in there before my head explodes.

 

I straighten up slowly. I haven’t heard a single sound since I entered the house, and with the harsh lighting of the basement and general lack of furnishings, it’s not like I can hide down here. One faltering step followed by another and another, then I turn and face the open doorway.

 

The stun gun slips from my hand and hits the concrete floor with a resounding crack. My lips work frantically as I feel my head begin to shake back and forth, trying with everything in me to deny what sits right in front of my eyes.

 

“No...no, no, no...no…. Oh, God...Rocco…”

 

Maybe...maybe he’s not...he could just be unconscious...from blood loss, and…

 

There’s hole in his chest, just as I saw it. His face is impossibly white in the few places where his skin is even visible, his head tipped back and his eyes closed under two shining pennies. And the blood. The blood is just…

 

Everywhere.

 

He sits in a chair, his hands bound behind him, and a tiny voice in my head says I should probably get his hands loose so he can be more comfortable, because that position can’t feel good. His ankles are cuffed to the legs of the chair, making his angle of recline that much more extreme, and I just know his neck will be stiff, and...and…

 

His chest is so still He’s so still. He shouldn’t be so still. It’s Rocco, he can’t hold still for anything. Even in his sleep, he tosses or snores or rolls until he falls off of the futon and-

 

“Rocco?”

 

I almost look around for the stricken child who must’ve spoken, because I don’t know how that sound could have come from me. I let out an involuntary, strangled moan as a wave of agony washes over me, trying its damndest to drown me where I stand.

 

“Rocco, please, please just-”

 

But I know he doesn’t hear me. I knew when I saw him from the doorway. I knew when I got out of the cab. I knew before I left my apartment that I’d be too late, but I hoped. I hoped so goddamn hard, and it didn’t...I didn’t...I couldn’t...

 

It’s too quiet. Every sniffle, every whimper or cry I make echoes off the stark walls and bounces back at me ten times louder. Even my steps sound off like thunder as I stumble toward my friend. I raise a quaking hand and brush my fingers down the side of his face, careless of the sticky blood streaked there. His skin is cold and tacky, his hair stuck together in thick, dark red ropes, and his beard is matted with the drying sanguine mess. I can’t even imagine how horrible his last moments were if this is how he was left.

 

“God, Rocco...why did you come here? Why couldn’t you just listen to me?”

 

I want to shake him awake, want to slap him until he opens his eyes, want to hear an answer from his stiff, dead mouth, want to find a way to force life and sense back into him at the same time. But since I’m the realist of my fucked up little family, I know my friend has been dead for a while now and there’s no bringing him back.

 

I drop to my knees at his feet, staring up at the lifeless shell of my best friend. I can’t reconcile the childish, vibrant man who just yesterday gave me a tour of his mother’s house with this empty, silent corpse. This ruined horror in front of me isn’t the man who bought me a brand new alarm clock for Christmas. This isn’t the friend who took me for Italian pastries every week just because he wanted someone normal and sympathetic to talk to. This isn’t the man who kept a cheating, druggie whore of a girlfriend because he was afraid of what would happen to her if he kicked her out, the man who was terrified he was going to end up as vile and heartless as the monsters he worked for, the man who went to work for monsters just so he could support his widowed mother.

 

Because this man is dead. And Rocco can’t be dead. He...I can’t...

 

I don’t know how much noise I’m making in the throes of grief and denial, but suddenly I become aware of the shuffling of approaching footsteps echoing across the basement from the other side of the green door.

 

My head snaps up, and I scan frantically for the stun gun. It’s across the room, back in the doorway, and I don’t know how close the person I’m hearing is. I don’t have time to get it, so I scramble as quietly as I can behind my friend’s body, curling up and pulling my knees into my chest so I hopefully won’t be visible from the door.

 

The second I think I’m hidden I look up to see another dead body staring at me from the wall. The man is lying on his stomach with what looks like a broken handcuff sticking from his back, but his head is turned towards me, his mouth hanging open and his lifeless eyes boring right into mine. I twist my head away from him only to come face to face with Rocco’s newly ruined right hand, currently missing the other finger he’d lost in my dream. I only just clamp my mouth shut against the wash of bile that surges up my throat. Even with clapping both hands over my mouth, I can’t quite stifle the moan that escapes my numb lips just as the shuffling footsteps enter the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will have internet, but I will not have access to writing space and privacy for the next few weeks. Leaving town, will be back around the middle of the first week of January. If you celebrate, I hope your celebration is peaceful and joyous. If you don't celebrate, I hope you stay fed and either warm or cool as your situation requires. Take care, and I'll see you guys in a bit. Please take a moment to let me know what you thought of the chapter. Thanks.


	23. Chapter 23

“Show me your hands!” a croaking and unsteady voice snaps. Since my hands are currently shoved over my mouth to keep me from screaming and/or vomiting, I don’t intend to immediately comply with that order. I hear the click of what I realize is a gun cocking and two more unsteady footsteps before a sharp tap echoes through the room. The footsteps pause, and I hear the stranger mutter, “What the fuck is this?”

 

There’s another shuffling sound, some rattling, and the man speaks again.

 

“What the fuck were you thinking, coming here with nothing but a stun gun? Come out and tell me who the fuck you are? I know you’re in here, I heard you!”

 

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth…in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm down and breathe.

 

I have nothing else on me, no weapons or anything that could possibly help. I have the envelope of cash, I have the police file. I could maybe...throw something? Distract him long enough to get past him to the door? Since I can’t currently feel anything below my waist and my hands are shaking hard enough to mix drinks, I don’t see that happening. Bribery? Oh, God, what do I even do? What the fuck was I thinking, coming here like I could help? I’ve got to-

 

“I’m only gonna ask one more time. I’m FBI, and my gun is out and pointed right about where your head probably is. Now get your ass up and out in the open so I can see you before I shoot you through the dead asshole you’re hiding behind!”

 

 _What the_ FUCK _did you just say to me?_

 

I don’t realize I’ve moved or spoken, but suddenly I’m standing and facing this strange man, my chest heaving, a haze of red coloring my vision, my teeth grinding painfully as the next words leave my mouth like someone else is speaking for me.

 

“If you ever say anything like that about my friend again, I’ll shove that gun so far down your goddamn throat you’ll shit bullets for a month.”

 

The man who stares back at me seems as startled by my words as by sudden appearance. He’s wearing the black dress I recognize from what I thought was the woman lying prone upstairs, but the mess of dark, sandy hair is gone replaced by some sort of cap over his real hair. Behind the gun pointed directly at me, underneath the garish make-up, I seem to recognize the man looking back at me with wide, shocked eyes and a gaping mouth, and I feel my temper back off a couple of cautious steps.

 

“Agent Smecker?”

 

He glares at me suddenly, his mouth closing into a hard frown, adjusting the aim of his weapon. I see my stun gun clutched in his other hand.

 

“You’ve got five seconds to tell me who the fuck you are, or-”

 

“I’m Grace. The one Connor and Murphy asked you to send the detectives to watch tonight. I’m with them; only...they’re...they weren’t here when I got here...and…”

 

My sudden temper flare melts under the sight of the second gun pointed at me this week. Smecker’s frown deepens before I see understanding flash through his eyes, and he slowly lowers his weapon.

 

“How the fuck did you even get here?” he asks, baffled. He squints at me, looking more than a little dazed and out of sorts. “I sent the three...well, fuck. Nevermind.” He seems to come to his own conclusions about how I got away from the detectives, which is just as well. I don’t think I could explain my night so far to him if I tried.

 

He takes a step towards me but stumbles, dropping the stun gun to clutch the back of his head. I take a hesitant step towards him, not sure how much I can help in my own unsteady state, but he waves me off with an irritated flap of his gun.

 

“I’d ask if you’re okay, but...um, do you need me to...call someone?” I don’t know who I would call. I’m probably guilty of at least a few felonies and misdemeanors at this point, and judging from his get-up and what seems like a severe lack of back-up, I get the feeling this wasn’t exactly a bureau-sanctioned operation for him, either.

 

“No...no, I just...need a minute,” he says, eyes squeezed shut in pain. “Somebody clocked me earlier; I don’t know how long I was out for. Came up here to help your guys when I heard about the extra men Yakavetta had called in. What are you doing here? You could have been killed, and-”

 

He winces again, cutting himself off. I don’t know what to do for concussions besides keep the person awake and check their pupils for dilation, but Smecker doesn’t seem like the type that wants to be fawned over, so I opt for talking.

 

“I was fixing Greenly some sandwiches, and I heard Duffy and Dolly over the radio, talking about the Yakavetta place and how you told them there would be all these men up here. R...Rocco…”

 

My throat tries to close up, the backs of my eyes stinging, but I aggressively clear my throat and try again.

 

“Rocco and the guys didn’t know about the extra men; they thought the rest of Yakavetta’s big guns were still out of town, and I tried to get up here in time to give them this so they would at least be prepared.” I pull the folded file from my jacket pocket and hold it out to him. His eyes narrow as he realizes what I have.

 

“Fucking Greenly. Fucking Boston PD. Fucking morons.” He sighs and starts to shake his head but stops with another wince.

 

Smecker is silent for a long time; he looks like he’s thinking hard, and I don’t want to interrupt. He finally straightens and says, “We’ve got some work to do before we can get out of here, if you’re up for it. There’s no telling if Yakavetta’s coming back tonight, so we need to get started. Now, first, tell me how you found your way down here.”

 

I explain briefly about the blood trail that I followed, and he nods, eyes searching the room.

 

“Nothing in here that can help with that. Let’s check back there.” He motions to the rest of the basement, and when he stumbles again, I silently steady him with a hand to his upper arm. If I’m leaning on him just as much as he’s leaning on me, neither of us a comment on it.

 

Out in the basement proper, tossed against a far wall, are the black gym bags the boys were carrying when they left the house. They must’ve been in a hurry when they left here to not try to take those with them. Either that, or they weren’t able to because-

 

“You’re not injured, are you?” Smecker asks sharply when I do some stumbling of my own. I shake my head, refusing to show too much weakness in front of him. Something about this man drives me to hide what I’m feeling, to put on a mask of indifference to the horrors around us. But the thought of them too disabled to take their bags affected me more in a physical way than I would’ve thought possible.

 

“I’m fine. Just...tired and worried. Those are their bags over there against the wall. They kept their…er…equipment in them. I guess they…couldn’t take them when they left.”

 

“I’m sure they got out of here,” he says, his voice oddly sympathetic. His eyes seem the tiniest bit softer, but I don’t trust it. This man is too sharp, he knows how people work, and he knows what to say to them. After a brief, awkward silence, he says, “They should have some ammonia in those bags. We need to get every spot of blood you saw on your way in and look around to see if we can find anymore. Then we need to find something to take care of the room your friend is in back there.”

 

“I don’t…”

 

“What is it?” he snaps, the impatience creeping back into his tone and eyes. He obviously doesn’t want to have to babysit me, but he’s stuck for now, so that’s just fucking tough.

 

“Why do we need to clean that room? It’s just Rocco and the other dead guy back against the wall.”

 

“Sweetheart, did you not see the other two chairs in there? And the handcuff sticking out of the other dead guy’s back? Your other friends were in there tonight, too, and there’s a good chance a lot of that blood is theirs. So, unless you want any forensic evidence pointing back to them, we need to find...there! We can use that.”

 

His eyes come to rest on a nearby wall, the one I couldn’t fully process earlier, and I turn to see a coiled hose hanging from the wall, hooked up to a spout coming up out of the floor. The shelf I saw is stocked full of industrial-sized jugs of bleach. I remember all the drains I saw in the floor and shudder, trying very hard not to think of why someone would need such a large room full of drains and bleach with a handy hose hookup nearby.

 

Except I don’t really have to think about it at all because I’ve already seen why.

 

Under Smecker’s direction, I spend the next several minutes spraying down the blood splotch trail with the cans of ammonia that I found, then bleaching and hosing down every bit of the room where Rocco’s body sits.

 

I can’t bring myself to turn the hose on Rocco himself, though. The idea is too gruesome, too macabre, and while I understand Smecker’s point that he may have gotten the boys’ blood on him, I just can’t do it.

 

Just before Smecker opens another jug of bleach to douse my friend, I reach over and peel the pennies from his closed eyes. Agent Smecker glances at me questioningly, his eyebrows knitted together, and I turn from him, shoving the coins in my pocket.

 

“The media thinks the pennies are to mark the bad guys. I know that’s not why Connor and Murphy did it for Rocco, but that’s what everyone will think once he’s found. They’ll think he’s just like all the other assholes here, that he’s the monster and not the victim. But he’s not one of the bad guys, and he never was, and I refuse to let the world remember him that way.”

 

My tone leaves no room for argument, though I can feel Smecker’s eyes on me. When he finally speaks, there’s a new note of something like respect in his voice. “Do you know why they put the coins on people’s eyes?”

 

I shake my head, refusing to look at him.

 

“It’s to help people get to the afterlife, to pay their way in, so to speak. Charon, the Ferryman, St. Peter; name the religion, and there’s someone in charge of letting people into the afterlife. I haven’t talked to Connor and Murphy yet about why they do it, but that’s the best I can surmise. I can’t say I share their beliefs on that front, but taking the coins seems-”

 

He cuts off as I turn to face him, my eyes ablaze. I speak quietly but clearly, enunciating every word carefully so he won’t mistake my meaning.

 

“Whoever’s guarding Rocco’s afterlife is welcome to come see me for any outstanding fees. I won’t leave the coins on his eyes or the stigma that comes along with them. If Connor and Murphy have issue with what I’ve done, we will deal with it together. Thank you for your concern. What’s left to do here?”

 

He sighs, looking almost as worn out and broken down as I feel. He nods towards the body behind Rocco. “Wipe down the cuffs sticking out of that guy’s back. Don’t want any fingerprints.”

 

We’re finally done hosing down the little room, and I turn one last time to my friend. His face is cleaner, some of the blood washed away by Smecker’s efforts, and the bleach is already washing streaks of color from his jeans. I touch his cheek again, unwilling to completely say goodbye, my face set into a tight, hard frown.

 

“I love you, Roc.”

 

I hear a clinking sound behind me and turn to see Smecker digging around in a little bag I haven’t seen before.

 

“You got me thinking about the pennies. It looks like the boys didn’t have time to do their thing before they left; we’re going to have to cover for them if we want it to look like everyone else here was the bad guys. Here, take these. I found them in the one of the bags they left.” He drops a couple of pennies into my palm and nods towards the guy in the corner.

 

“Turn him over on his back and cross his arms over his chest. Close his eyes, leave the pennies, and grab the stun gun on your way out. I’ll start on the guys upstairs.”

 

In what is probably the grisliest act I’ve ever performed, I do as I’m told and tug at the dead man until I have him on his back. Though he’s shorter than Detective Greenly, he feels so much heavier, and it takes me longer than I’m proud of to get him into position. I place the pennies carefully over his eyes, wondering for a moment what goes through Connor and Murphy’s heads when they perform this ritual.

 

I can’t even begin to imagine.

 

I stand, pushing off the ground to catch my balance, and realize I am practically saturated with gore like something out of my nightmares. The fumes of blood and bleach rise up suddenly, as if I haven’t been swimming in them for the last however long. I expect to feel sick; I expect that surge of nausea and pain that’s accompanied every other ghastly realization or revelation I’ve had tonight.

 

I expect it, but it never comes. I should feel appalled, thoroughly repulsed by myself and everything around me, but I can’t even find it in myself to be disgusted right now. I hear footsteps again, and Smecker appears in the doorway, looking as if he’s just come to the same conclusion I have. I have a flash of curiosity, bright and brief, as to why Agent Smecker is in a dress in the first place, something I maybe should have questioned earlier, but I let it go as quickly as it appeared. Insignificant details.

 

“Should I hose and bleach us, too?” I ask him. He’s as filthy as I am, so it might be a good idea to at least get our hands clean.

 

Before I can answer, a ringing sound echoes from the depths of the little purse Smecker has slung over his arm, making both of us jump. Frowning, he reaches into his bag and pulls out the phone.

 

“Smecker,” he barks, glaring at the floor. I see a variety of emotions begin to cross his face, starting with annoyance, followed swiftly by exasperation, and finally resignation. Smecker’s eyes turn to me, his expression suddenly unreadable, though I’d call it far from pleased.

 

“No, Duffy, you don’t have to call in backup.”

 

_Shit._

 

“No, I’ll explain everything, but you don’t have to call anyone in. She’s not in danger. I know exactly where she is. I’m going to need your help, though. Get a change of clothes from her room, then stop by my hotel and pick up a change of clothes for me. I need you to drive out to Dedham and meet me at the address I’ll text you when we get off the phone...Yes, Dedham in Norfolk county....Yes, that is the same town where Yakavetta lives…It’s less than an hour’s drive, you’ll survive. ”

 

He listens for another couple of minutes, his face stony, and I can hear the explosive cursing from the other end.

 

“Duffy, tell Greenly to shut the fuck up and quit whining. He’s not dead, he’ll be fine. It’ll take you about an hour to get out here, so get going. Oh, and bring some petroleum jelly, some paper towels, and a can of gasoline. A five gallon can should do it.”

 

With that cryptic order, he snaps the phone shut and stashes it back in his purse.

 

“We should hose off our hands and arms,” he says, nodding back out to the main room. “We’ll take my car out to an empty lot, text the address to the three Stooges. I saw some trash bags on the shelf; we can sit on those in my car. The idiots will bring us a change of clothes, we can burn these. The petroleum jelly with help get blood off anywhere it’s dried by then.”

 

“But...won’t we have to tell them what happened? I mean, they pull up and we’re both covered in blood, you’re in a dress, and I literally assaulted one of them. How does this not end with me in prison and you under investigation?”

 

“Still working on that part,” Smecker mutters, upending the remains of one of the bleach containers over my forearms. I turn my face away, holding my arms out so he can hose them off. I return the favor, then help him gather everything we’re taking with us.

 

Smecker heads out the door, expecting me to follow along. A rushing noise begins in my ears, the overwhelming sensation to let the emotions rush in and tear me apart becoming almost unbearable. Rocco sits silently behind me, waiting for a good-bye I don’t think I can make.

 

Before I can change my mind, I rush from the room and throw my cowardly ass up the stairs after Smecker. I know I’ll regret not touching him or talking to him one last time, but I just can’t bring myself to see him like that again at least in person. With my track record of nightmares, I’m sure I’ll see plenty of Rocco in my dreams.

 

If I can ever manage to sleep again, that is.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I did not abandon you. I had a huge mental block and convinced myself the way I was headed towards the end of this story was horrible and should be ditched. I consulted with a few people, then went back and read through the entire story up to this point. I made some changes along the way, so I'm going to re-upload every chapter so far. No major changes, just edits and tweaks of things that bothered me that I couldn't get right until not. I am now more pleased with the story so far, and I think I've figured out a way to do what I want without scrapping anything I've got written. Speaking of edits, if you noticed any errors or typos or continuity issues, please let me know in the comments. I'm probably going to start re-uploading chapters this weekend, so any help would be more than welcome. I can't promise regular updates from here out, but I will promise that I am not giving, nor have I given, up on the story. You guys are stuck with me until the end. And past that, as I'm getting inspired towards the between period (my head canon name for between the movies) and the second movie. Any requests, comments, edit suggestions are so very welcome. Thank you for sticking with me this long. Please leave a comment in the box on your way out and let me know you're still there. Shout out to bleedingrose0688 and Siarh, both of whom checked over this chapter multiple times. Shout to all of you for sticking with me for all these stories.

On the short drive to a vacant lot on the edge of town, Agent Smecker tells me he’s planning on letting the detectives in on everything that went down today from the phone call the boys made to him to why they were really at my apartment to what we were all doing out here. As I don’t currently have any better ideas, I tell him to just let me know if he needs me to say anything. We then lapse into uncomfortable silence that lasts until the detectives pull up at the lot about forty minutes after us. 

 

Smecker somehow manages to convince them to let us clean up and change before we get into the details of the night. I avoid meeting most of Greenly’s glares, shame burning my cheeks and forcing me to keep my face turned resolutely to the ground. I can still feel all three sets of eyes on me until I quietly ask them to turn away so I can change clothes. Just as Smecker said, the petroleum jelly works wonders getting the dried blood off my skin, but I’m left feeling greasy and utterly filthy afterwards, a not-entirely-physical sensation that has me shuddering in revulsion.

 

I don’t think I’ll ever get the sensation of Rocco’s blood off of my skin.

 

Smecker and the detectives have been talking for over an hour as I watch our clothes disintegrate in the flames a few yards away. The agent and I dropped both of our outfits in the barrel without a second thought, although I just remembered to rescue my personal affects from the jacket pocket before it got doused with gas. We stuffed the garbage bags we sat on and Smecker’s wig in the barrel, too, so the smell out here isn’t fantastic at the moment. 

 

I don’t know where we are right now except that it’s a vacant, graveled lot somewhere outside of Dedham, Massachusetts, and there aren’t any houses for a couple of miles in either direction. The area seems pretty deserted, but with the current state of affairs in my head, I doubt I’d notice if a parade went by.

 

I’m not really paying attention to what the men are saying as I stare at the two coins in my hand. Patches of bright, cheerful copper gleam in the firelight amidst bits of crusted blood that turn blacker the longer I look at them. Smecker’s words earlier, about paying your way into the afterlife, rattle around in my head, mixing with flashes of Rocco’s still form and all the different possibilities of what’s happened to Connor and Murphy. I know, deep inside, that I am well and truly frightened for them. I haven’t heard from them in hours, I have barely one clue as to whether they escaped or not, and I still don’t know who or what made that blood trail I found. 

 

But any worry I have left is buried beneath layers of foggy insulation that are suffocating me, muffling the real world and all it’s real concerns. Everything around me seems hazy and indistinct, supremely unimportant. I’m just so tired. That’s the only clear feeling I have right now. Everything else is a stifling, indiscernible blur that is becoming all too easy to lose myself in. There’s less to think about when I can’t even tell what I’m thinking in the first place.

 

Occasional sounds trickle in through the fog, but for the most part I just drift in place. I can barely even hear the conversation between Smecker and the detectivesanymore, probably why I’m not paying it much attention. Every now and then I’ll catch a particularly loud exclamation, but other than that I’m not really sure how Smecker’s big revelation is going.

 

Thankfully, no one’s come to interrogate me yet. I know I’ll have to apologize to the detectives, Greenly especially, but if we’re bringing them in on everything that’s been happening with the boys, then I might not have to go to prison after all. 

 

That fact should probably be more uplifting than I’m currently finding it.

 

Next to me, Smecker’s purse starts ringing again. The real world comes rushing back into sharp focus, and I glower at the bag as if it might retreat and take this ugly reality with it. I was just starting to settle into the numbing fog, and now I’m getting yanked back to the real world where I definitely do  _ not _ want to be.

 

When the phone keeps on, I slide off the hood of the car wearily, aching down to my bones, and trudge the few yards to where the four men are still arguing. Without a word, I shove the purse at Smecker, and he holds up a hand to the three detectives, who fall sullenly silent as he answers his cell phone.

 

He listens for a moment, and whoever’s on the other line is loud enough for the rest of us to hear the frenzied, furious tones, even if we can’t make out what the caller is saying. Smecker listens impassively for a few more moments before saying, “She’s right here with me. I would have told you that from the beginning if you’d let me talk.”

 

_ Connor. Murphy. Thank God. _

 

My heart skips a beat before speeding up, and I almost collapse with relief. I completely forgot they told me they’d be calling Smecker after the hit was over. After finding Rocco the way I did, I just...forgot.

 

It takes me a moment to realize all four men are staring at me and Smecker is holding the phone out. I take the cell phone and turn away, putting some distance between myself and the law enforcement gang before raising the phone to my ear. I hear the detectives and Smecker starting up again behind me as I answer.

 

“Lass, what th’fuck is goin’ on? Why aren’t ye at yer place? Near had a fuckin’ heart attack when nobody answered yer phone after th’second try! Th’ fuck would ye leave for? Anythin’ coulda happened to ye, an’ we came near t’goin’ t’yer apartment an’ breakin’ th’fuckin’ door down! What th’fuck were ye thinkin’?!”

 

“I’m sorry, Connor, I-” My voice breaks on a sob I’ve been holding back. The last few hours  abruptly catch up with me in one fell swoop, and my legs buckle underneath me. I crash to my knees, the phone clutched to my ear with both hands, my chest heaving as I try my damndest not to break down and fail miserably.

 

“I saw him, Connor, I went there, and I saw...I saw...I went to the house to warn you, the detectives said….too many men...and I sa...saw him, and he was so cold, and he- he didn’t move, and the blood and there was the hole, in his chest, and…” I can’t continue, I can’t even hold the phone anymore, and it slips from my fingers into my lap and slides to the ground with a soft chink against the gravel. I can still hear Connor’s voice, tinny and frantic on the other end of the phone, but I can’t deal anymore. I can’t pretend to be strong in front of these strangers when all I want in the world is to have my best friend by my side and my boys’ arms around me again.

 

A strong, warm arm wraps around my shoulder and pull me gently against someone, holding me tightly as I bury my face in my arms to try and muffle the sounds of my weeping. I turn reflexively into whoever’s trying to comfort me, pressing my  face hard into his shoulder, and I feel his other arm come around me. 

 

I just don’t want to care anymore. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be anywhere, I don’t want Rocco to be gone. I want to go back to three months ago, right after New Year’s, where everything was starting to feel exactly right, before my promotion, before my trip to New York, before fucking St. Patty’s Day. Before madness descended on my world and swallowed everyone I love. I just want to sink into whoever’s holding me until I don’t have to face the world anymore.

 

_ God, just give me my family back! _

 

I don’t know how long it is before I start to feel control creeping back through my limbs. I press gently against my comforter, pulling away to find Brian’s slate blue eyes peering at me sympathetically. 

 

“I’m...I’m sorry about...y’know...on your coat, there.”

 

He shakes his head gently, wordlessly telling me not to worry about it as he releases his hold on me. I glance around to find Greenly and Dolly studiously not watching me, ostensibly inspecting the fire barrel while Smecker talks on the phone. 

 

“Is he still talking to them?” I ask quietly. “I shouldn’t have lost it like that; I know they’re worried about me already. I just...my friend…”

 

“There’s not one of us out here who hasn’t gone a little crazy over losing a friend or family member, and they’re lying if they tell you otherwise,” Duffy interrupts, his face a reflection of my own grief. I get the sense that he really does know where I’m coming from, and the pressure in my chest eases just the tiniest bit. “Do you want to try talking to them again?”

 

I nod as Duffy stands, and I take his proffered hand, letting him pull me to my feet. I wipe my face on my shirt sleeve, not even caring how dirty it gets or what I’m smearing on it. My legs sting as I make my way over to Agent Smecker, but I brush the pain aside like so many buzzing flies as I hold out my hand for the phone. His eyes flick to my face, and he nods to me before saying into the phone, “Hang on, she’s back. I’ll put her on.”

 

He holds the phone out to me again, but he has something to tell me before he relinquishes it to my grasp. 

 

“They’re holed up in a motel somewhere in town, and they want to see you. I can take you to them tonight when we leave here. We’ll stop at your place if you need to get some things, and you’ll need to get anything of theirs out of your apartment. They can’t go back there again; they can’t be publicly associated with you from here out.”

 

I take a slow, shaky breath, my fingers trembling as I reach for the phone, and I feel Brian’s reassuring hand on my shoulder.

 

“Agent Smecker says he’s going to bring me to where you are,” I manage to get out in an almost understandable voice.

 

“Aye, lass, we’ll see ya soon enough. ‘M sorry I shouted. Ye didn’t deserve it, an’ I didn’t know ye’d...gone all dat way t’help us. M’ sorry ye saw Roc like dat, he-” My heart shatters again as Connor’s voice breaks, and I don’t even bother to wipe the tears away. Connor, the strong one, the one who holds us all together and protects his family. Our friend died on what I’m sure he’s decided is his watch, and that has to be absolutely killing him.

 

“Are you and Murphy…” I choke on the word, realizing what I almost just asked.

 

_ Don’t ask if they’re okay, of course they’re not fucking okay!. Is anyone or anything fucking okay anymore?! _

 

“ _ Hurt _ ,” I insert too forcefully. I stop myself one more time, take a deep breath, and try again. “Are you and Murphy hurt?”

 

I can literally hear Murphy snatching the phone from his brother’s hand, and he answers before Connor can. “We’re gonna be fine, lass. Bastards opened up the tear in Connor’s leg, but we patched ‘im up. We’ll see ye soon, aye? Need t’see ye soon’s ye can; need ta make sure yer alright.”

 

“Do...do you want me to bring anything? The first aid kit, or food or something?”

 

“Th’kit wouldn’t go amiss,” Murphy answers, then pulls the phone away to consult with Connor. I hear his brother reply, and then I swear I hear a third voice in the background. “Aye, some food would be good, too. Clean clothes, if ye can.”

 

“Is there someone else with you?” I ask. Who could it possibly be? Maybe they’re with Doc at McGinty’s? But then, why would they need a first aid kit and food?

 

“Summat we need t’tell ye when ye get here, lass. Situation’s gotten kinda...complicated,” Connor cuts in. “We’re not leavin’ town fer now; ain’t so much heat on us anymore. Give th’phone back t’Smecker, an’ we’ll see ye soon, aye? We love ye.”

 

“I love you.” 


	25. Chapter 25

“I get why you went to the house,” Smecker says abruptly. The ride back to my apartment has so far been quiet but not quite as uncomfortable as the one from Yakavetta’s house to the lot. That may just be due to my utter exhaustion, but I’ll take whatever small comfort I can get right now. I’m in the front seat of Agent Smecker’s car again, this time in clean clothes, as the detectives trail us back to my place.

 

“In your shoes, I’d do the same thing. I kind of did,” he adds with what could be called a chuckle if it came from anyone else. He offers me a wry half-smile, which somehow doesn’t reassure me much, although I do have a bizarre, split-second daydream of Smecker actually  _ in _ my shoes. “Your guys are doing what needs to be done, and if we can help them with that, we should.”

 

“That said,” he adds, his fingers clenching tightly on the wheel as he tosses a stern side glare in my direction, “That was probably the dumbest fucking thing you could’ve done. You know you can’t ever do anything like that again. What if it hadn’t been me coming down into the basement? What if it was Yakavetta? You didn’t even have your weapon, dropped it where you couldn’t get to it, and-”

 

“I know”, I say quietly, my eyes fixed on the dash. A dull flush of shame creeps up my neck and stains my cheeks, and I’m glad for the darkness between us. “Believe me, I know exactly how stupid it was. I was the one telling the guys not to go tonight in the first place because of how injured they were and how dangerous we knew it was going to be. But I had no idea you’d be going in, and even if I had, I still might have gone. If there was even the tiniest fraction of a chance that I could help them all make it out of there whole, I had to take it. And I had to try to save Rocco-”

 

“Why do you keep saying you were trying to save him specifically? I get the feeling that you and the other two are...close...so why do you only talk about helping them and saving the other guy?” 

 

Of course he would notice that. Connor and Murphy said he was sharp. I start to answer him but find myself pausing. I don’t know how much the boys have told him about why they started this whole vigilante quest in the first place. If they haven’t told him about their dream and I tell him about mine, he’ll either think I’m insane or lying, neither of which is a great position to place the three of us in. The twins have put their trust in this guy, so he is holding their fate in his hands, and I feel like it’d be best to not piss him off too badly.

 

“I...don’t know if you’d believe me if I told you,” I finally say, unable to verbalize the truth to him. “I just...I was certain this was going to end badly for him. I had a feeling Connor and Murphy might at least walk away, although I didn’t really know for sure about any of them, but...I don’t think I can...explain it any better than that. I just...I had to go in, I had to try.”

 

He silent for a long time, considering my brief statement and its lack of a solid answer. Finally, he nods and lets out a sigh. Even the lines on his face have lines of fatigue etched into them.

 

“I don’t know exactly why your boys are doing what they’re doing. I don’t know if it was the Russians attacking them or if they just woke up one day and decided to make the world a safer place, but I do know that what they’re doing is right; it’s needed. And I will do everything in my power to keep them out of prison and doing what they need to do.”

 

I notice he didn’t say anything about keeping them safe, but I suppose safety is a luxury in this line of work. 

 

“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask. “It’s not that I mind, but you don’t seem like the type to share like that with a complete stranger.”

 

He regards me for a long moment as if still trying to get my measure before finally answering, “Because I think you get it, too. I know you care about them, and judging by the conversation I just had with them, I’d say the feeling is mutual. You get it, so even if you aren’t an actual player, you’re still someone to consider. And you just proved you’ll do pretty much anything for them, so that counts for something in the grand scheme of things, I’m sure.”

 

“Thanks, I think.” 

 

That seems to be the end of the conversation for now. I don’t think Smecker and I will be bosom buddies sharing secrets over hot chocolate and popcorn anytime soon, but I think we understand each other a little better now. I still can’t shake the feeling that every word out of his mouth is measured, though, calculated to get the precise reaction he wants. I’m sure I’m just overwrought and reading too deeply into the conversation, but…

 

No, I’m just tired. I know I’m seeing emotions and motivations that aren’t there. I just need to sleep, and then I’ll be able to think a little better. Smecker put himself in actual mortal peril to help my boys, the same as I did, and was even injured doing so. I know he has at least has their survival as a priority, and I really should just give him the benefit of the doubt. I just need to trust him. If the guys trust can put their faith in him, then I should, too. 

 

Shouldn’t I?

………………..

 

The front door of my apartment is fairly beat up, and the area around the lock and door knob is virtually destroyed from Duffy and Dolly breaking in when they couldn’t raise Greenly on the radio. I can’t imagine what it must’ve taken to actually kick in the door with the security bar in place, but I tactfully refrain from asking the detectives. 

 

I end up telling Mr. Cassidy that Rocco was drunk and got a little over excited to try out a move he’d seen in a kung fu movie last night. I promise I’ll pay for the damages if he’ll send me a bill, and I apologize for waking him up in the middle of the night. I feel a sharp twinge of guilt for blaming the damage on Rocco, but I couldn’t think of any other lie off the top of my head, and I figure Roc won’t mind too much.

 

I go straight to my room and start shoving Connor and Murphy’s clothes into an old sports bag I find in my closet. The drawer is empty long before the bag is full, and I look around to see if they’ve left anything else here. They wore their rosaries and coats tonight, and I don’t think they had much else to their names.

 

I leave Murphy’s Christmas present in my closet (because what’s he going to do with a nurse’s costume while hiding out from the maffia?), although I do toss his Bon Jovi CD in with their clothes. While I’m thinking about it, I also toss another pair of my own jeans, some underwear and socks, and a long sleeve shirt into the bag for myself.

 

I’m working on force of sheer will now, avoiding so much as glancing towards the mirror. I don’t want to see myself, and I sure as hell don’t want to see anyone else that might be looking out at me. This whole day, hell this whole week, has been a nightmare from beginning to end, and I’m honestly starting to question whether I’m awake. And if I’m asleep, I could probably guess where this dream is going.

 

So, no...no looking in the mirror until I’m one hundred percent sure I’m awake. And even then, I don’t know...

 

I walk out to the living room in a daze, knowing I should pay better attention to what I’m doin. I look around to get my bearings, and I spy a couple of Connor’s movies on top of the VCR. I kneel by the television, looking carefully through the video collection and adding a couple more titles that Connor recorded from my TV, things I’ve never seen or paid attention to that I couldn’t honestly explain if asked about. Upon one final inspection, that seems to be everything, so I zip the bag closed and look up to find Greenly standing over me. 

 

To my utter shock, David sticks a hand out his wordlessly. I take his large hand in my numb fingers and allow him to pull me to my feet. I force myself to meet his eyes without flinching too badly, my face flushing bitterly with shame.

 

“I’m so sorry, David,” I start, but he holds up a hand, cutting me off. He looks anything but happy, but he’s not exactly angry, either.

 

“I get it. I don’t fuckin’ like it, an’ I sure as hell don’t appreciate it, but I get it. Just...eh, don’t do it again, alright? Not fuckin’ cool. And, uh...I’m real sorry about your friend.” 

 

I would put money down that Duffy put him up to this, but he seems to really mean it, and to both of our chagrin, I hug him suddenly. He stands stiffly for a second before awkwardly patting my back. I straighten, mumbling another apology and wiping at my stupid, leaking eyes. Exhaustion crept in long ago, and I know I’m swaying a little. I have to lock my knees for a second until I regain my balance, and I clear my throat, still avoiding Greenly’s eyes just as avidly as he avoids mine.  

 

“Thanks...for...for understanding, I guess. I promise I will do my best to never tase you and lock you in a closet again. At any rate, I think I broke the stun gun, so it shouldn’t be too hard not using you again.”

 

“You ready?” Smecker calls from the kitchen. I glance around the room one last time, a little dismayed at the lack of proof that Connor and Murphy lived here, even if only for a few days. I still have a few souvenirs from the carnival date, but those are mine; there are no pictures of them or us, nothing that says they belonged with me. Rocco’s stuff is still spread out in my guest room, but Smecker can go fuck himself if he thinks I’m getting rid of it. I’ll put it in my storage space in the basement or something.

 

I grab the handles of the bag and make a quick stop in the kitchen for my recently re-stocked first aid kit. A glance in the fridge tells me I depleted most of its contents by feeding the detectives earlier. We’re just going to have to stop for food on the way. I sling my purse over my shoulder, making sure the envelope of cash is inside and Rocco’s pennies are tucked safely into otherwise empty change pocket in my wallet.

 

An hour later, Smecker and I pull to a stop under the flickering light of a street lamp outside one of the seediest motels I’ve ever seen in real life in one of the worst parts of town I’ve ever been. I guess it’s not like Connor and Murphy need to worry about protecting themselves, but still.

 

“They said to tell you room 228. Knock twice, wait a few seconds, then knock twice again. Someone will answer the door” I nod and slip out the open passenger door, reaching into the backseat for Connor and Murphy’s things and the bags of groceries Agent Smecker picked up for me from the only market we could find nearby that was open this late. I manage to juggle everything around so I can still toss my purse over my shoulder and get a hand on my first aid kit. I start to turn away, but Smecker calls me back.

 

“I’m going to come by around noon tomorrow so we can get stories straight and figure out where to go from here. Let them know, okay?” I nod, realizing I’m going to have to call Jen and tell her I can’t make it to my first day back at work. Probably not the best start to my new position.

 

“Take this,” Smecker says, pulling me from my thoughts. I reach across the passenger seat and accept the card from him that has both his office and his cell phone numbers. As I stuff it hastily into my purse, he says, “Call me if you need something between now and then.”

 

I nod once more and step back from the car, shutting the door and watching as he pulls away into the night. Glancing up at the second floor of the motel, I shiver as a chill breeze cuts straight through my light sweater. I was in such a rush to get to Connor and Murphy that I didn’t even think to grab a jacket. 

 

I spot the room a ways down on my left on the second floor and head to the correct set of stairs, watching carefully where I put my feet. This place is run down badly, and the last thing we all need is my going to the hospital from here with broken bones because of wonky stairs. I think even Smecker wouldn’t be able to keep the boys out of the hospital, and with their own obvious wounds, there would be questions and-

 

_ Stop it. Just breathe and watch what you’re doing, and there won’t be any of those imaginary issues. There are enough problems for real without you making up a lot of extra ones to add to the pile. _

 

I make my way to the end of the building and hesitate for a moment outside room 228. There’s no sound from inside, and I can’t see any light leaking out around the curtains, but they probably would’ve taken precautions against anyone hearing them or being able to tell they’re inside.

 

I knock twice, then wait a few seconds as instructed and knock twice again. It’s late enough that the neighborhood is eerily quiet, and I once again hear a soft click on the other side of the door. The door opens just a crack, and I can see the chain is still in place. A section of unfamiliar face peers out at me through the narrow opening, lit only be the flickering street lamp, and I’m taken aback by the depth of savagery I see there.

 

“Deir ma, what’s ‘er name?” snaps a terrifyingly familiar voice. I know this voice; how the hell can I know his voice? Why do I feel like I’m going to collapse again? My throat closes up before I can answer, and all that leaves my gaping mouth is a breathless sort of squeak. I see movement about chest high in the doorway as the muzzle of a silenced gun that I never even saw moves away from the opening. The bags in my hands begin to rattle as my fingers trembling shamefully, and I force myself to calm down and breathe with everything I’ve got left in me.

 

“What?” 

 

“Th’boys, what’s deir ma’s name? Tell me quick, lass!”

 

“An…” I clear my throat and try again. “Annabelle.”

 

The door clicks shut, and I hear the chain slide free on the other side. The door swings just wide enough for me to be able to slide inside, but I hesitate. I’ve seen and heard absolutely no evidence that Connor and Murphy are in there, and this man is scaring the shit out of me. I have no intention of being alone with him.

 

“Come inside, lass,” Murphy’s voice calls out from inside. He sounds as exhausted as I feel and terribly strained, but he doesn’t sound like he’s under duress. I think. Because I  _ so _ know how that would sound…

 

I slip through the narrow opening, and the man holding the door closes it swiftly behind me, sliding the locks back into place. I drop everything I’m holding, my eyes searching the dimly lit room for my boys. Then I’m engulfed in Murphy’s arms, the breath squeezed from me as he pulls me tight, and the world is almost right again.

 

I don’t even realize I’m practically chanting “Thank God” until Murphy leans back, but instead of pulling me in for a kiss he holds me at arm’s length, his face awash with concern as he looks me over. I rub tears from my cheeks with the heel of one hand, refusing to let go of Murphy with my other. 

 

“Lass, are ye hurt? Why’s dere blood on yer jeans?” he asks, his voice rough with tension. I glance down where he’s looking and realize there is, in fact, blood and small rips all over the front of my jeans from the knees down.

 

“I...must’ve done it when I fell while I was on the phone with Connor,” I murmur, perplexed. I remember a stinging sensation when I got up, but this much blood? Murphy reaches a tentative hand as if towards my cheek, but rather than touching my skin, his fingers brush the hair from my temple. The hair sticks and pulls strangely, and a shiver of revulsion runs down my spine at the nauseating sensation.

 

“Yer hair’s a bit…’M not criticizin’, I swear, but ye prob’ly want t’get a shower b’fore ye look at it in a mirror, love. Ye got...eh...Connor’s tryin’ t’clean off in th’bathroom, maybe ye want t’give ‘im a hand an’...get a quick rinse off?”

 

Murphy’s anxious tone catches my attention, and I frown. “What’s wrong? I mean, I wasn’t going for any fashion awards tonight, Murph-”

 

“Ye’ve got blood in yer hair, love,” he says softly, looking as if he wishes he were saying anything else. “I c’n see ye tried t’clean up, but ye’ve streaks of it mattin’ yer hair down an’ stainin’ yer skin.”

 

No wonder Smecker volunteered to go into the market for me. I must look like a survivor of a slasher film. Weary to my bones, I release my grip on Murphy’s arm and nod my acquiescence. “Yeah, I can help Connor. I need to look at his leg, anyway. Can you hand me the first aid kit?”

 

As Murphy stoops to snag the box for me, a clearing throat catches my attention, and I turn back to the man who opened the door that I’ve somehow managed to entirely forget about in my relief at seeing Murphy relatively whole and safe.

 

“Y’goin’ t’introduce us, lad?” The man’s accent is even thicker than the boys, and the eerie familiarity of his voice strikes me again. I open my mouth to say something, put voice to my apprehension, but I have no clue how I would even vocalize what I’m feeling. Murphy, on the other hand, looks like Christmas has come early this year, his face lit with some sort of inner light I’ve never seen before. 

 

“Lass, yer not gonna believe dis, but...dis is our Da. He’s th’hitman Yakavetta hired t’take us down. He found us at th’house an’ recognized us from th’prayer we was sayin’. He’s been in th’pen dis whole time, an’ Papa Joe got ‘im out just t’take us down. Da, dis is Grace. She’s our…” He pauses, trying to think of the right words to describe our unorthodox relationship to his absentee convict/assassin father. “Well, she’s ours.”

 

Silence hangs thick between us as I stare down the man that nearly killed all three of my guys. I take a step closer, looking him over.

 

“You’re their father, the man who’s been gone for twenty-five years,” I say, my voice low and even. 

 

He eyes me carefully before answering, and I realize some of the menace from his appearance is due to the cruel slant of his bushy gray eyebrows and his crazed beard and hair. He’s not terribly tall, standing about an inch or so higher than Murphy, although, again, his hair adds the the impression of height.

 

“Aye,” he answers cautiously.

 

“And you’re also the assassin hired by the maffia to murder the men who were hunting them down, therefore making you the man who shot Connor and Murphy and ruined Rocco’s hand,” I say, my voice still relatively calm and neutral. Cold rage creeps slowly through my limbs like ice water, and my fist clenches at my side.

 

Apparently, Murphy sees or hears something he finds concerning because he takes a step towards me, raising one of his hands in what he must think is a calming gesture. Before he can react further, I lift my arm, drawing my fist back, and drive my knuckles as hard as I can straight into his father’s left shoulder, right where Murphy mentioned he was shot yesterday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day. Don't say I never gave you anything. If you like what you're reading, please leave a little note on your way out. It's hard to keep going when it feels like most people have given up on the story. Thanks for reading this far.


	26. Chapter 26

“I won’t apologize for what I did, but I hope I didn’t cause too much damage.”

“I’ve had far worse, lass. Ye made it hurt like hell, dat’s all,” Noah replies. I can just make out a wry smile beneath his wild tangle of a beard.

If anyone had asked me how I was most likely to be spending my Sunday night, this is not the first answer I would have given them. I have Noah sitting shirtless on a rickety chair next to the bed while I finish redressing the wound on his shoulder. I somehow manage to keep most of the shaking from my fingers, and Noah graciously ignores the few tremors that occasionally make the gauze flutter as I press it down with a fraction too much force.

“Good,” I say with satisfaction, though my voice shakes a little as I place a bandage over the gauze. The seeping bullet wound sports burn marks similar to Connor and Murphy’s, and I internally shake my head at the three of them. Chalk that one up to genetics, I suppose. Or practicality and no other options. “Serves you right.”

He lets out a sharp, barking laugh that makes him wince a little (though I suppose the wincing  _ could _ be from me jabbing the tape down against the bandage). Despite my lack of finesse in dressing his wound, Noah’s expression grows more amused by the second.

Up close and in somewhat better lighting (and minus the whole psycho death glare and the gun pointed at me), Noah is a lot less feral looking, although the intimidation factor is still strong. If he could tame the wild hair, he wouldn’t be half as frightening, I think, but it’s just possible that, what with getting out of prison, being ordered to murder some men, and being reunited with his sons whom he hasn’t seen in twenty-something years, he might’ve had a couple more things on his mind than stopping by the barber.

Connor and Murphy watch silently from the bed as I finish taping their father’s bandage down, both of them wearing matching expressions of utter shock at my behavior. I don’t see why they’re so surprised.  _ He shot them _ . I could’ve done much worse to him in retaliation. They’re lucky I didn’t have a brick close to hand.  

“You’re all patched up, Mr. MacManus,” I say, ripping off the end of the tape from the roll. I sit back in my chair, doing some wincing of my own as every muscle and joint in my upper body protests and snaps all at once. Even my skin is sore in various places, like I have one hell of a carpet burn or something.

“It’s Da or Noah,” he says, an uncanny echo of my first conversation with the boys’ mother. He reaches over for his t-shirt, pulling it over his head as he continues, “T’ank ye fer th’patch up job, allowin’ I might not’ve needed it if it weren’t for ye hittin’ me in th’first place.”

“If we’re going to go down that road,” I reply cheerfully as I start placing supplies back in the first aid kit, “I wouldn’t have needed to punch you if you hadn’t tried to  _ murder your sons _ .”

“Tis a rare one ye’ve got yerselves, lads,” Noah grins, nodding to Connor and Murphy. “Whatever ye do, don’t lose ‘er, an’ don’t piss ‘er off.”

“Believe us, we know, Da,” Connor replies, something like awe in his eyes as he glances at me. He shifts on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position for his leg, and the awe is quickly replaced by a grimace of pain. “Hate t’be a burden, lass, but do ye t’ink ye could-”

“I’m sorry, Connor, yes, I can help you. Let’s get you stripped and into the bathroom so we can clean you off. Murph, can you get him to the bathtub and help him with his clothes?”

I wash my hands in the sink as the boys shuffle past me, finally allowing my hands to shake as much as they want as I scrub them with soap and the hottest water setting possible. I glance at the counter next to me and see Connor and Murphy’s rosaries lying on a hand towel. The cloth is damp underneath, so I assume they must’ve just washed the beads off. I don’t see why they’d need to wash the beads, though; they never have before. Except they wore them to Yakavetta’s, and I’m sure every other inch of them was covered in blood at some point, so...yeah.

Yeah. Another deep breath.

It doesn’t escape my attention that they cleaned their rosaries before they even attended to all of their wounds.

Connor’s leg is easier to deal with than I thought, and I silently thank God that he doesn’t need stitches. I bind it as tightly as I can, not wanting to cut off circulation in his inner thigh with the wrap I’m using to hold the bandage in place.

I have Connor sitting on the edge of the bathtub to take advantage of the running water, as he’s pretty bloody all over, and I’ve got him stripped to his boxers to avoid getting all of his clothes wet. I hand him rag after rag to clean as much of the blood off as he can, hoping that I’ll remember to ask Agent Smecker how to dispose of them later.

In the sickly yellow light of the bathroom, Connor’s still-forming bruises stand out vividly against his skin, mottling his chest, stomach, and back a nauseating light purple. My own ribs ache in empathetic memory of the pain I know he’s in, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do except offer him some Advil when we’re done in here.

I silently hand him another clean washcloth for his face while I fasten the elastic bandage over the gauze to help keep pressure on the wound. Connor’s leg took a lot more abuse than Noah’s shoulder, and the bleeding is proving just as stubborn as Connor himself, but I’m pretty sure the continuous pressure from the Ace bandage should help.

“That should hold you for at least the night,” I say, standing and offering Connor a hand up. He tosses the bloody rag on the pile with the rest of them and uncharacteristically accepts my support to limp back into the main room. I glance at Murphy and Noah, both sitting silently and trying surreptitiously to observe each other from across the room.

“Does anyone need anything else patched up?” This is easily the weirdest night of my life, and yet I still find myself playing the role of tension breaker.

As I help Connor sit down on the bed, he nods towards Murphy, and I notice for the first time he’s cradling his left hand awkwardly. His thumb is bent at an odd angle, and there are abrasions all over the skin. I move next to him, holding his wrist delicately as I look over the injured appendage. Just like in the dream. Everything ended up just like the dream.

I finally shake my head and sigh.

“I don’t think I can do anything for you, Murph; this is way beyond anything I know how to take care of. Does it feel broken? What does a broken finger even feel like? How did this happen”

“I’ve had broken fingers b’fore,” Murphy says, wincing as he tries to move his thumb. “T’ink it’s more likely dislocated. C’n get Connor t’help me pull it back inta place, though.”  

I shudder, swallowing hard against the rising bile that claws its way up the back of my throat, even after everything I’ve seen tonight. I scramble to find something to change the subject.

“I don’t know what kind of food Smecker picked out for you guys, but it probably doesn’t have to be heated. Look through the bags and see if there’s anything else you might need in the next few days. He said I had to get your stuff out of my apartment, that it was...too dangerous for you to come back, so I packed everything I could find in that gym bag. There’s a change of clothes in there for me, as well. I’m going to take your advice and hit the shower, Murphy, see if I can get...clean. Please...erm...please wait to deal with your thumb until I’m in the bathroom, okay?”

Before Murphy can answer, Noah stands, lifting several of the bags onto the dresser and rifling through them. He selects a bottle of water and a couple of boxes from one of them and turns back to us.

“Going to retire fer th’evenin’, if ye don’t need me. I’ll be next door.” With that brusque dismissal, he steps over to a door in the wall I hadn’t noticed until right then, and moves into the adjoining room, firmly shutting and locking the door behind himself.

I glance at Connor, perplexed, wondering if I said something to offend their da. After his amusement at my handling of his shoulder, I can’t imagine what I might have possibly done, but there’s really no telling. Connor shrugs, stifling a yawn as he answers my unspoken question.

“Don’t look at me, lass. Never spoken a word t’th’man b’fore t’night since I was old enough t’talk in th’first place. He’s been locked up fer th’better part o’th’last three decades, bound t’have some habits we don’t understand. S’far’s I c’n tell, he was in solitary fer a lotta dat time, prob’ly th’most conversation he’s had in years talkin’ t’ye t’night.”

Murphy stands from the bed and offers me his good hand, pulling me in and kissing me soundly out of nowhere. His lips linger on mine for a long time as the fingers of his right tangle into my hair, and for just a moment, I can forget that today was the worst day of my life. He finally pulls back, bumping his forehead against mine before moving away towards the food.

“Shoulda done dat th’second I saw ye,” he murmurs, his gaze avoiding mine as he goes to inspect the groceries. I turn towards him, needing so much more than just the one kiss, but Connor snags my hand, wincing as he tugs me gently to his side.

“I’m sorry I yelled at ye earlier on th’phone, lass.” His eyes are solemn, the spark in them all but distinguished, and I know he’s apologizing for a lot more than just the phone call. I squeeze his fingers with as much strength as I can muster and drop down to a crouch beside him as I pull his fingers to my lips.

“Don’t, Connor. Don’t do this to yourself. Let me get a shower, you and Murphy deal with his hand, and then we can do whatever we need to do to make it through tonight. I know we can’t fix or change what happened, but we’re here together and we can deal with the rest of the night, at least. Let’s just make it through the next few hours and take it from there, okay?”

He nods, his face determined, but I can see the cracks in his perpetual armor of confidence. Tonight has shaken all of us to the cores of our deepest selves, but I think Connor might have the hardest time coming back from that brink. He’s always had so much bravado and swagger with a fairly convincing front of not letting much of anything bother him. But he watched while his best friend was murdered in front of him tonight, and regardless of how little truth there is to the feeling, I’m pretty sure Connor is trying to shoulder most of that responsibility. It’s terrifying to see him this shaken and vulnerable.  

So terrifying that I give in to my weak selfish impulse and all but flee from him, using every last bit of reserve strength I have to gently close the bathroom door instead of slamming it shut between me and the boys. I slump against the door, my eyes clenching as I allow myself the small relief of being out of their sight for a few moments.

If they can’t see me, I don’t have to hold myself together for them. I know they need me, and I...I can be there for them, I just...I don’t have anything left. I need to shower to recharge, at least a little. And if I can make it through the shower, then I can eat something. Rather, I can  _ try _ to eat something, and then we’ll do what I told Connor.

Just try to make it through the next few hours and take it from there.

The scalding water is heavenly, and I empty the entire tiny bottle of shampoo over my head, sudsing and rinsing as many times as I can before the soap washes away. I studiously look anywhere but down, avoiding the sight of the crimson streaks streaming off of me and swirling down the drain.

Despite my determination from not five minutes ago to hold together just a little longer, I can feel the pounding water eroding the walls I so adamantly placed in my mind around tonight’s horror story. As they were rather shoddy to begin with, my mental barriers crack and break away with each passing second, and with every bit that falls away, I see the faces of the dead men from Yakavetta’s house until there’s a parade of gruesome corpses across my vision. It doesn’t matter whether my eyes are open or closed; I either see them on the backs of my eyelids or on the cracked, stained walls of the shower. Bloody bullet wounds, sliced throats, puddles of blood that expand and suck me in until I’m drowning in their clotting, suffocating depths.

The faces streak by faster and faster, black and red streaks spinning like some fucked up nightmare of a carousel, until I can’t see anything else. My hands slap flat on the wall, fingers grasping desperately for purchase on the tile as the images careen into a frightening blur that sends waves of vertigo rolling through my body.

Just as I think my knees are going to give out, the spinning stops, and every single one of my thoughts slams into singular focus on my last sight of Rocco bound to the chair. He is lit up from every angle, as if by an army of spotlights, and each wretched detail is brought into sharp relief. I try to wrench my eyes away, but this is all in my head, and this time I can’t just walk away.

Even as I fight my own thoughts for some sort of reprieve from this nightmare, the pool of coagulated blood beneath Rocco grows steadily, fed from the steady flow running from his missing fingers and the gushing hole in his chest, rising up above his ankles, his knees, his waist, his chest.

As the blood reaches his chin, Rocco’s head snaps up, his eyes shining bright and so wrong against the sanguine lake around him, and his gaze fixes unerringly on me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I never hear his words. The blood rises still, flowing into his mouth even as he thrashes against his bindings, climbing over his nose, covering his eyes, until my friend is lost from sight.

My throat constricts, cutting off even my ineffectual gasping, and the acrid burn of tears bites at the back of my eyes, bile rising in my throat until my stomach heaves and I drop to my knees on the floor of the shower, retching violently. There’s nothing in my stomach to eject; l gag, choking on the bitter acid that sears its way up.

And still Rocco wont’ get out of my head, clawing tenaciously to my thoughts and turning them from one memory to another. Rocco laughing at my embarrassment of not knowing Connor’s last name the first night I went home with him. Rocco helping me clean up my living room after Connor and Murphy wrecked my coffee table. Rocco burning his fingers on the fresh pignolata while the waiter shakes his head in mock exasperation. Rocco hugging me goodbye and telling me to take care of Connor and Murphy. All those bear hugs and bearded kisses I’ll never feel again.

And then back to the chair in the basement. Over and over, seeing all those moments spent with Rocco, and then I’m right back to staring at him in that chair, the basement brimming with his blood, where I watch him fighting and disappear over and over, until all I see is red.

I’m starting to think I never left that basement in the first place. Maybe I should quit trying to get out; maybe I’m supposed to stay there. Maybe this is what I earned from not trying harder to save Rocco. Maybe...

But that can’t be right, because Rocco’s still fighting. Even in my mind, even in death, Rocco throws himself against the restraints of his prison as the blood swallows him, his eyes set resolutely on mine, his mouth opening one last time to tell me-

“Grace.”

I don’t even realize I’m gripping my hair that hard until whole strands come away in my clenched fists. I slowly, painfully force my fingers open, the joints aching and stiff, and watch bewildered as several lengths of my hair slide languidly down the drain. I remember falling down here, I remember throwing up. Rocco was fighting, trying to tell me, but...I don’t remember…

“Grace?”

I look up, only to be slapped in the face by the stinging, freezing cold spray of the shower. When...when did the water turn cold? My scalp aches, and my shins sting as I lift my shoulders and back, gripping the side of the tub fiercely so as to not faceplant. There was something I was supposed to be doing, but I can’t-

“ _ Grace, I’m comin’ in! _ ”

Connor bursts into the bathroom to find me crawling listlessly from the bathtub, not able to summon the energy to properly stand. He throws the only remaining clean towel around my shoulders, gripping my upper arms firmly as I struggle to find my footing. Murphy appears in the doorway, his concerned expression a mirror of his brother’s. Murphy squeezes past us in the tiny room to shut off the water, and silence falls among the three of us.

“I’m drowning,” I murmur, my gaze falling to the floor under their avid scrutiny. “I...can’t get out of the basement. But...but I’m trying.” Anything else I was going to say is cut off by sudden, violent tremors. I abruptly realize that I am freezing, and my teeth are chattering too hard to allow me to speak anymore. I shuffled towards the other room, desperate for the bed and some semblance of warmth.

“Ye shoulda called me, lass,” Connor says softly, rubbing the rough towel over my icy skin, using friction to bring warmth. I stumble but continue determinedly forward. “Can ye make it?”

I nod, my vocal cords refusing to respond, and make it the last few feet to collapse onto the bed.

“Murphy, strip yer shirt off an’ get under th’covers. She needs heat.”

Connor’s voice is calm, but even in my lethargic state, I can hear the tremor of tension. Murphy slides onto the mattress behind me, pulling me into his blazing embrace. He presses his body down the length of my back, and I turn into his arms, dropping my head on his shoulder.

Connor joins us on, still clad in nothing but his boxers, looping his arm around my waist and pulling our hips together, somehow fitting the three of us together in that perfect interlocked position I’ve grown accustomed to. Someone pulls the covers over us and switches off the light, and I’m engulfed in a darkness, warm and secure. Both twins work their hands gently over my skin, chafing feeling back into my limbs, and as their heat seeps into my bones, my thoughts begin to shake off their momentary fog of despair.

They were beaten at Yakavetta’s, maybe even tortured. They were shot yesterday, by their father no less, and tonight they watched their best friend die right in front of them. And now they have to take care of me. Shame creeps in with the heat, and my breathing begins to hitch against the knot reforming in my throat.

“I’m-”

“Don’t, Grace,” Connor murmurs into the crook of my neck. “Ye won’t let me do it t’meself, an’ ye don’t get t’turn dat around. None o’dis is yer fault. Ye warned all of us as much as ye could, an’ we went anyway. Not a damn t’ing more ye could’ve done.” His arms constrict around me, and I take in a shuddering breath. I don’t know if I can agree with him, though, as I shiver between the two of them. I don’t know if any of us are to blame or if any of us are blameless. We could’ve...I don’t know, we could’ve tied him to a chair and refused to let him out of the apartment. I could have done something else, anything else, to keep him from going.

But Rocco made his choice, and he stayed at the twins’ sides. And if he hadn’t done so, they might both be dead.

The image of the twins in Rocco’s place shakes me in a way I didn’t think an idea could. The two of them, just as lifeless and...and…

Just as quickly comes the idea that with allowing Rocco to leave, knowing he was going to die and they would live, I’ve somehow unconsciously traded their lives for his. I nearly vomit again, and I jerk hard in the twins’ arms, shoving the heels of my hands into my mouth to keep from screaming. Just...just...don’t…

I just have to breathe, to...breathe.  _ Just breathe _ .

“Let it out, girl, tell us what you’re thinkin’,” Murphy murmurs, his forehead pressed painfully to mine. “Lemme help ye.” But I can’t let him in on this, not this time. I can’t lose them, too, can’t deal with this, can’t deal, I just can’t, and...

“No,” I finally answer. I don’t know where this steadiness has come from, this still and focused voice that reminds me of someone I used to be. “I can’t share this. Not even with you.” My mood swivels on the edge of a razor, draping back and forth from steady to despairing with the grace and speed of a prima ballerina, and I can’t keep up with my thoughts anymore.

I tried to stop Rocco, I did, but in the end, I just accepted his decision, let him walk out the door, and hoped really hard my dream was wrong and that he and the twins would come back to me. But I knew he wouldn’t. And I knew they would. I knew, and I still let it happen.

“Ye...ye c’n tell us anythin’,” Murphy says quietly, his voice muted by surprise. I’ve never flat out refused to tell him anything before, at least not serious things, and my refusal gives all three of us pause.

“I don’t think I can share this. Maybe eventually, but not tonight. Too much...there’s been too much tonight. I need to just...I need to feel you both here with me, know I’ve still got you and you’re as safe as I can make you. I can’t lose anyone else tonight, even if it’s just emotionally, so let me keep this to myself until I’m ready.” Murphy hesitates before nodding slowly, and Connor’s lips brush over my shoulder blades.

“No more-” I have to stop and clear my throat as my emotions tips towards desperation again. I force the dancer back to the knife’s edge, imposing a tenuous balance and swallow the lump in my throat. “No more talking tonight unless it’s to tell me how much you love me and how you’re never going to leave me.”

Connor’s fingers slide possessively over the curve of my hip, squeezing hard as he presses his face between my shoulders, bringing us even closer together. I slide my own hand down over his wrist, and I can feel the tendons standing out there, rigid and strained under the newly forming scars.

“When nobody answered at yer place when we tried t’reach ye, I was convinced Yakavetta sent his men after ye. Just knew somethin’ had happened, an’ I almost lost me mind. Was seein’ ye beaten an’ bloodied in dat alley again, not breathin’, an’ it was all b’cause we weren’t-”

“That’s against the rules,” I whisper thickly, my eyes closing against the ache in my chest. I don’t have any tears left; I think I might honestly dry out and dust away if something sets me off again.

“Please, Connor, I know tonight...tonight was...bad, and we’ll have to talk about it eventually, but I can’t think about any more of it right now. Just...we don’t have to say anything happy, but no more about tonight. Please. I just don’t have anything left.”

The air is still around us, the sounds of the neighborhood muffled and distorted. I can hear Murphy’s heart beating steadily next to me, and I use that faint sound as an anchor to hold me in place. Though I can feel Connor’s gaze on my face, I willfully keep my eyes closed. I just need to pass out. I need blackness, I need nothingness, I need to be able to breathe without feeling like I’m going to scream, explode, or disintegrate.

I need to be able to close my eyes without seeing someone dead.

“Please, Connor, can we...can we just sleep?” I feel movement around me, and from the change in the tension, I know the twins are having another silent conversation. They shift subtly against me, Murphy adjusting his arm so my head isn’t pressing on his bullet wound. Connor’s fingers stroke lightly down my cheek, and he lifts his head to press a kiss to my temple.

“Murph’s got ye fer now, lass. I ain’t leavin’ ye, I just need t’go fer a bit of a walk, straighten some shit in my head. ‘M sorry fer pushin’; I know how ye feel right now, an’ I’ll give ye time. Just lemme know when yer ready. I love ye. Now try to rest, aye?”

“Thank you,” I manage. The bed moves next to me as Connor stands. I hear some shuffling around the room as Connor gets dressed, his movements slow and hampered by his injuries, then the door opens and shuts softly as he steps out into the night.

“I’m going to have the nightmares, Murphy,” I whisper. “I know I need to sleep; I  _ want _ to sleep, but I...I…”

I turn my face by instinct, pressing into the crook of his neck. The shivering has mostly subsided, what with Murphy’s ridiculous body heat, but I can still feel a slight tremor running through me. He tilts my chin up towards his face, and I finally relent and open my eyes to find him gazing somberly down at me, waiting for the rest of my thought.

“I’m afraid to let go.”

He’s quiet for a long time, our eyes locked, and I find my vision has adjusted to the lack of lighting enough that I can just make out his expression. I’ve never seen Murphy this worn and world-weary. Even that day in the kitchen just a week ago when he cried into my hands feels like years in the past.

The darkness in Murphy’s eyes reaches out to me as it always has, and I find myself thinking back to the night at the carnival, when Murphy took me to the mirror maze in the fun house. I found a depth within Murphy’s eyes that I wanted to sink into, to lose myself in, but I was afraid to let go then, too.

Murphy remains silent, watching the thoughts drift over my expression, and I realize that he needs that release as much as I do. Maybe tonight we can let go of everything else if we can just...I don’t know...hold on to each other?

Maybe Murphy and I can keep each other afloat tonight.

I reach for his face on reflex, my thumb smoothing over the delicate, bruised skin beneath his eye. Purple marks are starting to appear over most of his face and neck, and if Connor’s battered torso is anything to go by, Murphy is in a lot of pain, as well. His now-bandaged hand closes over mine, pressing it to his cheek, and I can feel my own tremors echoed in his grip. His eyes close as he places a kiss on the palm of my hand before pulling me tighter again him, tucking my head under his chin. Even in the stillness of the otherwise unoccupied room, I have to strain to hear his reply.

“We’re both gonna be fightin’ some o’th’same demons t’night, lass. Least we c’n face ‘em t’gether.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been sick. Getting better. This chapter went through a few different version because it just wouldn't work, so it took longer than I wanted to get the update posted. HUGE shout out to bleedingrose0688, who looked over this chapter SO many times before I was satisfied. She's got an epic Boondock Saints story herself that is finishing up, go check it out. Thank you for all the support with the last chapter. Let me know how we're doing.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know it had been a while since the last update before today, and this one's super short, so I figured why not. Happy Friday.

The morning brings a harsh aching and emotional numbness. Despite my exhaustion, I’m only able to sleep a little under three hours, and after the nightmares that woke me, I don’t feel like it’s currently worth it to try for more rest. Bloodied faces following me, dogging my footsteps through a maze of basement corridors all while the voice that’s been haunting my dreams for months continues to resonate throughout my mind, telling me I have to let Connor and Murphy go, telling me they can’t stay, that they never could stay with me, that they're meant for something so much more important than me.

 

At least now I have some context to that part of the warning.

 

Since it’s so early, I give Jen’s cell a call, hoping she’s still asleep or the phone is in her purse and she won’t hear it so I won’t actually have to talk to her directly. I know I’m being cowardly by not talking to her directly, but I’m literally calling out the first few days of my new job, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to go back to work. I leave a brief, vague message about a family emergency and say I’ll call her later when I know more. I apologize and hang up before I start babbling out details over the phone. I need to talk to Smecker before I talk to Jen anyway, find out what I am and am not allowed to say.

 

It’s funny, this situation I find myself in: I have never been less capable of thinking straight, and yet I’ve never had more need to remember so much.

 

Connor’s walk must not have lasted too long because he and Murphy are snoring away on either side of me. I manage to extricate myself from their arms without waking either of them and step up to the sink located outside the bathroom that is barely big enough to house the shower and toilet. Seriously classy motel, this.

 

I scrub my face with soap and water and do my best to wrestle my snarled tangles into a semi decent ponytail. Since I forgot to pack a brush, I pretty much give up my hair as a lost cause. Unfortunately, I can’t avoid looking in the mirror, and while I know I must look worse in the harsh glare of the fluorescent lighting, I really don’t think the bulbs can be responsible for the haunted, pale mess that stares back at me.

 

I’m paper white, my cheeks a little more sunken than I’m comfortable with. The whites of my eyes are streaked red, the skin around them puffy, and my chapped lips look like I’ve been drained by a vampire. Ah, well. Still doesn’t motivate me to put on any sort of make-up.

 

I dress quietly and step over to the grocery bags, rooting through them until I come up with a couple of individually wrapped danishes from one, some oranges from another, and a couple of sodas from a third. Before I can lose my nerve, I knock on the door separating the rooms. I hear shuffling on the other side, then a click, and the door swings open.

 

Noah is only slightly less frightening in the dim morning light filtering into his room. He’s already dressed, and I wonder how much sleep he got last night. Before I can say anything, he says, “I don’t sleep much dese days. Haven’t in a few years. Survival tactic.”

 

Hearing his voice right on the tail of my nightmare, I suddenly realize why he sounded so familiar the night before. I take a second to compose myself.

 

“The boys are still sleeping. I’ve got a few things for breakfast, if you’d like to share. I thought we could sit over here and let them sleep. We need to talk.”

 

He regards me gravely for a short moment before nodding and stepping aside to let me enter, then closing the door behind me without locking it.

 

Uncomfortable doesn’t begin to cover the moment. Noah has the most intense stare of anyone I’ve ever met, not helped by the savage facial hair/crazy eyebrows thing he has going on. Silence hangs heavy and oppressive between us as I glance around the tacky, obviously-decorated-in-the-sixties room that is identical to the one I left Connor and Murphy in. Garish orange, avocado green, and polyester are prominent in both wall coloring and bedspread, and the carpet looks like it might have started off as a pattern in shades of taupe and beige but isn’t trying very hard anymore.

 

Noah indicates the chair by the windows (which are similarly covered in trash bags). I sit gingerly, not sure if the ancient, rickety metal chair will even hold my weight, although, to be fair, one of them did hold Noah up last night. Once I’m fairly certain I’m not about to be dumped in the floor, I place my breakfast on the desk next to me and silently offer him half of everything, all of which he accepts, save the soda.

 

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything better to give you,” I say, not sure why I’m apologizing. “If we were at my apartment, I could at least cook, but I don’t think you’ll ever see it, according to what Agent Smecker was saying. He’s coming by in a few hours to talk to us; he said we need to figure out what to do next. I guess he’ll bring news of whatever the fallout at Yakavetta’s house was.”

 

I can’t think of what to follow that statement with, so I busy myself peeling my orange and avoiding Noah’s penetrating stare. I definitely see where Connor and Murphy got their piercing, hawkish gazes from.

 

“Is dat what ye wanted t’talk t’me about?” he intones softly. I risk a glance, and the genuine concern and feeling in his gaze takes me by surprise. I must show more of my shock on my face than I think because the corner of his mouth tils up under his beard in a wry grin.

 

“I’ve been in prison for near t’ree decades. Weren’t dead, an’ I’m not entirely th’monster most people t’ink me t’be. I killed dose who needed killin’, an’ sometimes th’wrong people wanted it done. Didn’t mean t’folks dey wanted offed didn’t need removin’, so I went about business and hoped fer th’chance t’make me way back around t’dose what needed th’Lord’s judgment th’most. Doesn’t mean I’m a complete animal.”

 

MacManus men and their ability to get inside my head. I can’t put words to how surreal this conversation already is, and I’m about to drive it right out of the realm of rational thought and straight down the path to sheer lunacy.

 

“You’re right, and I’m sorry again. I shouldn’t make assumptions. I...how much did you and Connor and Murphy actually get to talk last night? Did they tell you why they started up this...crusade in the first place?”

 

He nods, so I continue, “Okay, did they tell you about my dream as well? The one I had the same night? Did they tell you about the nightmares I’ve been having since December?”

 

“Dey mentioned ye had a dream about seein’ how dey’d all end up, but naught about t’others.”

 

“So…” I struggle to put words to the dreams that have been plaguing me for months now. I’ve had nightmares regularly all my life, but these last few months have been the worst, triggered (so I supposed) by the twins’ near abandonment of me after my injury. “It’s a bit of a long story-”

 

“Judgin’ by th’snores goin’ in th’next room, lass, dey ain’t wakin’ any time soon. Start as far back as ye feel ye should while I indulge in dis... _delightful_...pastry.”

 

I give him the best summary I can of what happened in December starting with my idiotic attempt at solo heroics, followed by the dreams with the ominous voice to my own act of mild (compared to Connor and Murphy) vigilantism. I fast forward a few months to fill in some details for him of the last couple of weeks that the boys left out, which finally brings me to the dream that woke me just prior to coming over to visit him.

 

“So...now the dream seems to be inserting itself into other nightmares, spotlighting things I would really love to just wall off but apparently I’m not allowed to forget.” I’ve given up on eating and am anxiously picking little white strings off individual orange sections until each is pristine before moving on to clean the next.

 

“But why tell me all dis, lass?” Noah surprises me once again with his attentiveness. He’s not being rude or acting as if I’ve wasted his time. On the contrary, he’s been absolutely absorbed in everything I’ve told him, taking in the details of these last few months of my life with his sons without interrupting to ask all the questions I know he must have. And when I finish, instead of asking any of those questions about the sons he hasn’t seen for most of their lives, he asks about me.

 

“Because...last night, when you opened the door to the motel room and spoke to me, I froze at first because your voice sounded so familiar, but I couldn’t place it for anything. And then I had the dream with the voice again; I hadn’t heard the voice in a few weeks, you see, and...When I woke up, I just knew. It’s you. The voice in my dreams telling me I have to let the boys go, that they have a higher purpose, has always been you. And I have no idea why.”

 

Noah purses his lips, chewing thoughtfully as he steadily regards me. “Can’t say I understand all dis dream business, though I c’n understand feelin’ dat compulsion t’act. Had it fer near t’irty years, fer summat different reasons. I don’t know what t’tell ye.”

 

I nod, my eyes dropping down to the orange section in my hand. Disappointment rises in my gut like acid; I shouldn’t have expected him to offer some sort of magical solution. The only supernatural things that have occurred in my life have definitely not changed it for the better; why should this situation be any different?

 

Noah reaches out, placing a surprisingly gentle hand on my shoulder. “Did ye feel th’compulsion in th’dreams with th’voice, Grace? Did dey have th’same feeling of forbidding ye got from th’one wit’ th’boys’ injuries?”

 

I nod miserably, realizing they did. I didn’t want to admit it, even after I saw my dreams beginning to come true, even to myself, but the dreams with the voice all felt...inevitable.

 

Noah nods slowly, his hand patting mine before releasing it as he straightens up. “Den th’best ye c’n do is begin t’prepare yerself fer th’worst, an’ hope ye never have t’put dat plan t’action.”

 

Probably the most rational piece of advice anyone’s ever given me.

 

By unspoken mutual agreement, the topic changes, and the conversation turns to Connor and Murphy after that. Noah begins slowly, asking me general questions about their lives, but I am more than willing to get my mind off everything in the present and happily fill him in on as many embarrassing details and stories about the twins as I can. I stumble a few times as most of my stories inevitably include mentions of Rocco, but I soldier on, determined to have a little more time before I have to fully process the events of last night.

 

“Their mother has never told them who is the older twin, so you definitely shouldn’t tell them if you know,” I grin, taking a swig from my soda. Noah has managed to force the ancient coffee maker to  perform some semblance of its original function and is gingerly sipping the smoking rewards of his labor.

 

“Speakin’ of t’boys’ Ma, do ye-”

 

A knock from the next room interrupts Noah, and the door swings open to reveal Connor and Murphy, mostly dressed, looking exhausted beyond belief. I thought I looked bad, but they both look like they aged about five or ten years over the last two weeks. Of course, no one looks their best first thing in the morning. One of the many things I hate about waking before eleven o’clock.

 

“Fuck are you two doin’ up so early,” Connor grouses, clearly not expecting an answer as he shuffles into the room and drops heavily on the bed next to Noah. Murphy sniffs hopefully, his eyes flitting around the room until they land on the coffee pot. I notice there’s only about a cup’s worth left, and I stand before Murphy can start World War Three with his brother.

 

“Noah, can you do that weird bit of mechanical magic you did earlier and make another pot of coffee? These two will beat each other senseless over that last cup, and then I’ll have to end all existence as we know it because I am not mentally equipped to handle that sort of bullshit right now.”

 

I direct both boys back to the other room to get something to eat whether they like it or not, filling them in on Smecker’s impending visit. It’s early yet, barely eight, and even after my soda and what the twins swear is nothing resembling coffee, we’re still dragging. The conversation becomes stilted, punctuated frequently by yawns and trailing off of sentences as one or both of the boys slip into a doze only to jerk back awake. I find my eyes attempting to close of their own accord, and I can’t really think of a valid reason not to let them. After about ten minutes of this, we apparently start to grate on Noah’s nerves because he banishes us back to the other room, telling us not to come back until we can actually sit up for five minutes without falling asleep.

 

I collapse face-first in the middle of the bed, my eyes still feeling gritty and swollen from last night. Murphy collapses just as heavily on my left, though Connor settles down next to me a bit more gingerly to avoid jostling his leg too badly.

 

“Should change both your bandages,” I slur into the pillow.

 

“No idea what ye said, but if ye can’t even lift yer head t’say it, den it c’n prob’ly wait a couple o’hours,” Connor murmurs into my hair before placing a kiss on the back of my neck. He pulls me gently until I’m leaning back against him, and Murphy takes advantage of my new position to slip between my arms and settle his head in the crook of my neck. I’m passed out before I can even settle myself, and thankfully there are no dreams this time, narrated or otherwise.


	28. 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No promises of regular updates. I went to a darkish place in the last few months, and fair warning: the story is coming with me.

“Dey’re half-dead. Ye c’n stand t’give ‘em anudder hour or so, can’t ye?”

 

“I’ve given them an extra hour and a half already. This conversation has to happen, and the sooner the better. There’s already a shitstorm of questions that are getting hard to answer, and we need to figure out where to go from here. I need them awake to do that.”

 

I swim groggily back toward consciousness, my brain resisting every inch of the way. Connor lies still and comatose next to me while Murphy tosses restlessly on the far side of the bed. I reach out a hand for his arm, and he stills a little, but his brow is creased, a deep frown etching shadowed lines into his face.

 

With both of my human heaters quiet and comforting once more, I drift in and out a few times. The quiet voices continue talking, and the conversation between Noah and who I eventually recognize as Agent Smecker becomes choppy, jumping from comments on the investigation at Yakavetta’s house to Noah explaining how he was able to track down the guys. The bits and pieces I get of their talking are disjointed and make very little sense to my scattered, worn out mind.

 

“Twas fairly easy. Damn near anybody I talked to knew dis Rocco fella an’ where he liked t’hang out. Asked a couple more people, an’ dey knew generally where his place was. So waited ‘til I spotted ‘im an’ followed him an’ Murphy an’ th’lass back t’her apartment. Needed th’boys t’separate away from th’girl, so I-”

 

“Went an’ shot my fuckin’ finger off,” Rocco cuts in from where he’s sitting in the chair next to the window. His hands are still bound behind him, and blood drips from his wounds, pooling on the cheap, worn out carpet underneath him. He watches me from his chair with tired, empty eyes, and I can’t help but shiver at the sight of him. “Can’t say as I blame ‘im, he was just doin’ his job, I guess, but still, he shot off my fuckin’ finger, can ya believe it?”

 

“Grace.” A gentle shake of my shoulder causes me to start violently and jerk away from the contact, coughing and spluttering to catch my breath.

 

“Calm, girl, it’s just us,” Connor says, gripping my arm carefully. His eyes are bright with concern and startlingly alert, considering the little sleep we’ve all had. I look around wildly for Murphy before spotting him on the far edge of the bed. He looks even worse than I feel, his back hunched over and his face buried in his clenched fists.

 

At my movement, he reflexively turns to face me, and his eyes are haunted and sunken in his exhausted face. He looks so old today, aged years in a span of a few hours, and my already aching heart twinges painfully for him. After just a second, though, his head jerks away, and he nearly leaps to his feet, heading into the bathroom and shutting the door with a hollow thud.

 

I want to call after him or at least to ask Connor about Murphy’s erratic behavior (not that it’s too difficult to guess at the cause of his distress, considering the circumstances), but my parched lips and tongue keep any sound from getting out. I swallow convulsively, but I have no moisture to pull down my sandpaper throat. Without me needing to say anything, Connor hands me a cup of water, his hand lingering on mine to keep my nerveless fingers steady as I bring the glass to my lips.

 

“Drink it slow, lass, no sense makin’ yerself sick,” he advises, his voice even and soothing. His face holds no trace of concern over his brother’s odd behavior, so I do as I’m told, finding the simplicity of following directions strangely soothing. This was not the wake-up I was expecting, and I’m probably going to need a minute or thirty to recover.

 

I suppose I should expect Rocco to have a starring role in a lot of my nightmares from now on.

 

The conversation continues next door, albeit a little quieter, as Connor and I drag ourselves out of bed. Murphy comes out of the tiny bathroom looking much more normal, albeit even paler than usual in the wan lighting, and he brushes a quick kiss across my forehead I passing. Most of my unease dissipates, and I follow his example, opting for another shower to wake myself up. I promise that I will alert both of them if I find myself on the floor again before stepping under the frigid spray.

 

I go for bracingly cold this time, hoping to shock my brain into working order; the results are less than stellar, but at least my eyes are staying open. I can’t stand much of the water’s arctic temperatures, though, and I’m out in record time, shivering as I dress in the spare clothes I brought with me.

 

I’m going to need to go home at some point today, at the very least to get a hairbrush. And I need to figure out what to say to Jen. I’d like to have a job after this week, but I know that my position, like most jobs, requires some degree of concentration and attention to the tasks at hand, and after yesterday I honestly don’t know if I could focus on anything for a significant length of time.

 

Especially if Rocco is just going to be popping up in my head like that, throwing random commentary around.

 

I braid my hair painfully tight, a last-ditch effort to hold my head together as I ignore the washed-out image with shadowed eyes in the mirror who, in turn, ignores me just as diligently. The dim lights in the room are too harsh on my eyes, and I find myself cringing away from the glare. A wave of dizziness sweeps over me, and I stagger a half-step but don’t fall. Blinking against the fluorescence, I glance down and realize my hands are clenched hard on the edge of the counter, and for the life of me I can’t remember grabbing it. I force my fingers open, puzzled, and flex my aching digits as I reach for my toothbrush.

 

The boys are faster in their morning ablutions than I am, and they finish dressing silently before stepping next door, leaving me to finish the last of my dazed preparations alone. I don’t even notice they’ve left until I hear the partitioning door close behind them.

 

It doesn’t occur to me until then that I should have taken advantage of the three of us being relatively alone to ask Murphy what was bothering him so much when we first woke up. He seemed better after his shower, but his abrupt exit and the disturbed expression on his face sticks in my mind as I run my toothbrush under the tap.

 

I take my time, brushing each individual tooth like I haven’t since I was a kid about to leave for the dentist’s office. If I’m being honest with myself, I am putting off the meeting with the FBI agent for as long as possible. I don’t think I like Smecker very much, despite our bonding experience last night, and I have this deep-seated sense of dread when I think about how much leverage he now has over the twins’ (and subsequently my) future.

 

By the time I make it over to the adjoining room, everyone has lit up their preferred poison, and the tobacco smoke is thick in the air. I have to hunt to find a spot that isn’t saturated, but I finally find a seat next to the ancient air conditioner. The poor machine is fighting desperately to put out something like airflow and is just able push some of the haze away, so if I take shallow breaths I might be okay.

 

Rocco and the guys always left my building or stepped out on the balcony to smoke when they were at my place, and their flat was just big enough (with enough holes in the walls) that the smoke never bothered me much. In this tiny room, though, with three cigarette smokers and Noah contributing with his enormous cigar, there’s a thick, choking haze in the air that makes me want to squint even though I can see just fine. I might have to step outside, soon, though, just to get some fresh air.

 

Noah nods a greeting to me from his seat near the door, and I return his nod with a tired smile. Smecker tips his head similarly, and I hope he doesn’t notice the extra strain in my expression as I turn my smile in his direction. He looks rather preoccupied this afternoon, so I’m probably safe.

 

The agent looks surprisingly dapper today, especially after the state I saw him in last night. He’s wearing another snazzy three piece suit like the one from his television interview, this one a sophisticated dark blue color. His hair is styled to absolute perfection, and despite his lack of make-up (a distinct antithesis to his appearance last night), he has no signs of the dark smudges that are so prominent under my and the boys’ eyes. I swear, I couldn’t look that put together if I had three hours to work on myself after having a full night’s sleep. I think I’m equal parts impressed, annoyed, and jealous.

 

He proceeds to fill us in on the details of the morning’s investigation at Yakavetta’s house, which has ultimately resulted in another stalemate in the on-going hunt for Boston’s own home-grown vigilantes.

 

Surprise, surprise.

 

“But I can’t hold this off of you two forever. We need something to take the spotlight off you guys for a bit, let the clamor die down some. You’re going to have to lay low for a little while, hold off on the executions. The good side of last night’s massacre is we now have probable cause to search Yakavetta’s house, so there’s a good chance we can find the evidence we’ve been looking for to bring him to trial for something, maybe even get him put away,” Smecker finishes, taking a drag from his cigarette. He leans back in his chair, the rickety one by the desk that I ate breakfast in, and exhales slowly, waiting for a reaction from his audience.

 

“An’ how long would dat last?” Connor asks from his seat next to Murphy on the bed. He stubs his own cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside and offers the tray to Murphy, who follows suit. Connor beckons me over to join them, and I willingly crawl between the two of them. I instantly slump over against Connor’s side as his arm comes to rest around my waist, and my free hand quests for Murphy’s fingers. He takes my hand slowly, almost reluctantly, but when I start to turn towards him, I sense Noah’s gaze on us.

 

He silently watches this exchange among us that’s as automatic as breathing to me, and I wonder what lies behind his impassive expression. As my eyes meet his, though, his expression softens into a sad sort of smile before he looks back to Smecker, waiting for his answer.

 

“There’s no telling,” the agent admits dejectedly. “If - and that’s a big _if_ \- we could even get any charges to stick to him, there’s no doubt his lawyers would argue the sentence down until it’s practically nothing. And then he’d just get out after less than half whatever time he’s sentenced to for ‘good behavior.’”

 

I have to admit to a very strong pang of sympathy for Agent Smecker in that moment. That’s got to be one of the most frustrating, soul-crushing parts about being law enforcement: you work your ass to the ground to bring someone like Yakavetta to trial and if they even get found guilty, they get out in practically no time at all. There’s no telling how many murders someone like Papa Joe is responsible for, and he’ll probably be walking free before-

 

“Or we could just kill ‘im,” Murphy says, interrupting my train of thought.

 

“Aye,” Connor agrees quietly.

 

Connor’s face is calm but earnest. This isn’t just pride or petty revenge for him. As much as he’ll take some personal satisfaction from Yakavetta’s death (as will I, if I’m being completely honest), he set out with a plan yesterday, and he’s going to consider this unfinished business until Yakavetta’s in the ground.

 

Murphy’s face, on the other hand, is harder to read. I can see some of Connor’s determination, but there’s something more hidden behind his exhaustion, something disquieting that sets my stomach roiling and my nerves even further on edge. I stop myself from questioning him in front of everyone and settle instead squeeze his hand intently. He ignores my gesture, his hand still and unresponsive in mine, and continues to stare down the FBI across the small room.

 

Uneasy silence settles over our little group at this blunt pronouncement. Noah’s face is stoic and impassive, impossible to read behind the grave expression. And as much as Smecker was willing to help the boys last night, I can see him struggling mightily within himself to reconcile all of his training and old, personal values with this new world that’s presenting itself to him: preventing crimes, preventing hurt and agony to potentially hundreds or even thousands of people by ridding the world of those who would cause all that harm. But he, whose life and career up to this point has been all about upholding the law, must violate his own oath and code of ethics in order to do so.

 

You couldn’t pay me enough to be in that man’s shoes.

 

A thought occurs to me, and since no one else is offering any ideas, I speak up before I lose my nerve.

 

“Not to be the voice of reason, but how are you guys going to even get at him again?” I ask. All eyes turn to me. My stomach twists at the intensity of the sudden attention, but I force myself to continue. “After last night, Yakavetta’s got to be on high alert. You obviously can’t go back to his house, and you can’t kill him in public if you happen across him. And we lost...our information source, so you have no idea where his hiding places are. He could _be_ anywhere, he could be _going_ anywhere. Didn’t somebody say his son is out of the country? He could be leaving Boston as we speak; hell, he could’ve left last night.”

 

“He’s still in town,” Smecker replies, eyeing me speculatively. “They brought him in for questioning after all the dead men were found at his house. He, of course, has an airtight alibi, but we have enough evidence to hold him for at least a night or two. I’m sure his lawyer is arguing the whole ‘model citizen, pillar of the community’ bullshit to get him out on bail, so we might not be able to hold him for any longer than that, but he’s definitely been ordered to stay in the city. Good point about leaving the country, though. Could argue he’s a flight risk and maybe use that to get the trial moved up once we file the evidence.”

 

Everyone else picks up the conversation from there, and I gladly leave them to it. My contribution cost me what little energy I was able to salvage with my few hours of sleep, and I know I’ll need to recharge soon. Time starts to slip away as the men discuss different ways they could go about finding the right time and place to finally get rid of Papa Joe, but I tune out after the first five minutes and just coast.

 

“You never were good for much when you didn’t get enough sleep,” Rocco observes from my vacated seat by the air conditioner. His feet are propped up on the sputtering unit, his hands linked behind his head as he reclines in the ancient chair. I feel like I should warn him that his seat is most likely about to collapse, but one look at his grin tells me he knows. He looks better now, more rested than I’ve seen him since I came home from New York, and there’s no gruesome puddles staining the floor beneath him, which is a huge relief.

 

“Now would be a great time for a nap, though,” he continues, eyeing me as I droop against Connor. I don’t answer, lulled deeper into my stupor by the rise and fall of the conversation around me. Even Rocco’s voice fades into the background as I start to drift off, but before I can get really settled, a gentle hand shakes me awake again.

 

“Shit, was I snoring?” I mumbled, my bleary eyes wandering randomly around the room. I wipe absently at the corner of my mouth, hoping I haven’t drooled on anyone.

 

“Lass, ye should go lay down fer a bit. Ye don’t have t’be here fer dis.”

 

Murphy’s voice is distant, but I still respond automatically and turn towards him. His hands on my arms are so steady as he helps me up that I don’t even bother leaving my eyes open and simply drape myself across him. I stumble back to the vacated room, relying entirely on his guidance and support.

 

I try to help as he relieves me of my clothes, but I mostly just get in the way until he has me stripped down. I collapse onto the covers, murmuring contentedly as Murphy draws the scratchy coverlet up to my chin. But I never feel his weight settle onto the bed next to me, and the intensity of his gaze on my face draws me a little out of my stupor.

 

“ ‘S wrong?” I ask, one eye half-opening with confusion and worry. There’s so much more I’m trying to ask him, but that’s the extent of my articulation. He frowns as he surveys me, his hands jammed deep in his pockets. I can’t read much more of his expression through my exhaustion-blurred vision, and I struggle to push myself up.

 

In an instant, Murphy’s hands are on my shoulders, urging me back down onto the bed.

 

“Get some sleep. I gotta hear what Smecker has t’say, gotta work out summat wit’ dis plan.”

 

His voice is hollow, emptier than I’ve ever heard it, even after “The Incident” in December when he was so angry with me, and I start to fret that he’s still pissed that I went to Yakavetta’s last night.

 

“Murph, please…can you stay? I need you-”

 

“Know ye do, lass, but dis has t’happen. I’ll be back when we’re done. Sleep now.”

 

Curt. Cold. Done.

 

He starts to reach for me but pulls his hand back abruptly as if I’m going to burn him and leaves without another word. My head spins dizzily, and I let my eye close with defeat. Whatever is going through Murphy’s head right now, I am in no way physically capable of dealing with it. I just need to get a little more sleep and a decent meal, and then we can work through this together. I don’t blame him for being so torn up.

 

I mean, we all lost Rocco…so…yeah.

 

The conversation starts back up next door. In the distance, there’s a deep rumbling sound, and as I slip under, I can’t tell if it’s a truck downshifting or thunder. If I were awake at all, I’d probably be worried about the possibility of a storm on top of everything else, but I’m out before the thought even forms.


	29. Chapter 29

“ _Wake up, Grace_.”

 

I come to all at once and with a sudden rush of clarity that I haven’t known in days. Every detail is immediate and sharp, as if I’ve slept for a hundred years and never need to rest again. But I’m not in the motel bed, and it isn’t the week after St. Patrick’s Day. It’s Christmas night a few months ago, and the three of us are in my living room.

 

Just as we were that night, I’m on Murphy’s lap, and that ridiculous kung fu movie is playing on the television. Connor and Rocco snore blissfully away next to us as Murphy reaches for a blanket to cover the two of us with. I remember this, every detail of how this scene plays out, but-

 

“This is wrong.”

 

“Aye,” Murphy answers, his lips ghosting over the bare skin of my shoulder and neck. “Know yer a bit squeamish ‘bout puttin’ on a show, but dose two won’t wake up fer anyt’in’. We’re fine, c’n cover up wit’ t’blanket, if ye like.”

 

“That’s not what I mean,” I protest pathetically. My body won’t respond the way I want it to. I’m responding to Murphy’s touches the way I did that night, sensations sweeping and overwhelming me as his fingers circle over and over, setting every nerve ending on fire.

 

And also on edge.

 

We shouldn’t be here. This already happened, I know it did, but I’m…I’m awake, I know I am…I think…so, then, Rocco should be dead, but he’s right there, snoring in my arm chair, and-

 

“ _Are ye awake, girl? Need ye t’wake up._ ”

 

“ _I am awake!_ ” I snap, my temper boiling over as I struggle internally to make some part of me behave as I want it to. Murphy doesn’t respond, his mouth fastened to the back of my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh there. My arm moves of its own accord, slipping behind his head and pulling him closer.

 

I’ve got to fucking move! Maybe this whole thing has been one long nightmare since Christmas. I know what’s going to happen, so maybe I can fix what went wrong; I don’t have to go to New York. I can convince the guys not to go to McGinty’s for St. Patrick’s Day, I can keep them home that night, I can…I don’t know, get Doc to…

 

“Goddammit, Murphy, let me up!”

 

Whether Murphy is ignoring me or simply can’t hear me, the result is the same, and his hands begin their familiar path of seduction, one slipping down my belly to dip between my thighs while the other plucks lightly at my nipple, causing my entire body to shiver violently against him.

 

“Aye, girl, keep dat up.”

 

“He can’t hear ye,” Connor says from my other side. Though my body is stuck in this perverted cycle, my head swivels to the side to find Connor not only awake and watching us, but exactly as he appeared in my dream the night of the bar fight. Rocco lies in my armchair still, but collapsed now, rather than reclined. Both of them are awash in blood and gore, and the gaping hole in Rocco’s chest puts paid to anymore fantasies I have about somehow saving the day.

 

Even as Murphy’s hands continue their work, and my senses go into overdrive, but I whip my head from side to side, refusing to accept my inability to do change anything. I have to force my body out of its grotesque caricature of lovemaking.

 

“It ain’t dat he wants to ignore ye or hurt ye,” Connor continues evenly, as if sitting blood-soaked on my sofa while watching Murphy and I make out is the most normal of activities. “He just ain’t in his right mind. Yer gonna hafta knock some sense inta him. He’s losin’ himself t’th’grief, ye see.”

 

“ _Need ye t’wake up fer me, Grace. Need ye…_ ”

 

A deafening barrage of thunder jerks me out of the nightmare and back into an equally jarring conscious state. The room is pitch dark, though it’s strangely lit by the frequent bursts of lightning that show around the edges of the trash bag-covered windows. There’s warmth behind me, warmth that should be comforting, that has always been comforting before, but then why is my stomach still roiling?

 

“ _Can ye wake up fer me, girl? Need t’ feel ye. Wake up fer me.”_

 

Murphy’s hands roam hungrily over me, fingers sliding into me with startling force, his erection throbbing against my lower back. His other arm curls under my shoulders and around my collar bone, anchoring me firmly against him. Even as my pelvis rocks instinctively to meet his thrusts, my mind is screaming that this is still wrong, that I need to move, to get out of the bed, to-

 

“ _Grace, talk to me. Are ye awake? I need to be wit’ ye. Are ye ready?_ ”

 

His voice quavers, his whisper thick and unsteady and unpleasantly hot against my ear. The whole room is unpleasantly hot, and I squirm hard in his grip, trying to push away. Murphy groans at my movement, burying his face in my hair where it’s come loose from my braid.

 

“I…yes…, but-“

 

Though I only meant to answer that I’m awake, Murphy takes my yes as consent and enters me with a growling curse. He’s tense behind me, his body rigid as he plunges as deep as he can. His urgent, frenetic energy sets off alarm bells in my head, and my stomach twists violently. Trepidation coils in the pit of my belly as the storm grows louder outside.

 

“Murphy, what-”

 

Another snarl of thunder interrupts me as Murphy withdraws and slams home again, forcing me further down into the mattress. I scramble for purchase, my hands grasping at the bed sheets, but Murphy catches my wrists in an iron grasp, stretching my arms up over my head. His thrusts push us further over until I’m stretched out beneath his suffocating weight.

 

He shifts, switching both of my wrists to one hand and pulling at my legs with the other. I struggle underneath him until I’m on my knees in a position that seems almost a sick farce of someone prostrate at prayer. His chest hair scratches against my back, sending my already jangled nerves reeling, and every push of air through his lungs weighs him further down upon me. My panic is real as Murphy sets a punishing pace, his strokes brutally deep and fast, his grip on my wrists bruising to the point of real pain.

 

“ _Lemme hear ye_.”

 

His growled command momentarily shocks me out of my submissive stupor, and I wrestle to pull in a deep breath.

 

“Murphy, please-”

 

“ _Aye, girl, say it again._ ”

 

“No, I didn’t-” I can’t think, he’s too heavy, I can’t breathe…The storm, and there’s too much noise, and-

 

His teeth scrape along the ridge of my shoulder, sinking into the juncture at my neck with so much force, and the shriek that escapes me is sheer, frenzied pain. I can’t pull my hands free, I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, I can’t-

 

Murphy’s teeth dig harder into the tendons of my throat, and I can feel the growl in his chest more than hear it over the raging of the storm. The sudden image of a slavering, rabid wolf flashes across my vision, followed in rapid succession by Connor’s bloodied form and Rocco’s silent corpse. Lightning blazes through the room, and my panic explodes in a blast of hysteria.

 

I rear back, smashing my head into Murphy’s face as hard as I can. There’s a feral curse above me, and then I’m free, air rushing back into my lungs with dizzying speed. I fling myself off the bed, my wrist smashing against the bedside table, and roll to my knees on the floor, my lungs burning as I scramble backwards away from him.

 

Murphy kneels on the bed, shoulders heaving, holding a hand to his temple and forehead while the other hand clutches the sheets with a death grip.

 

“ _You fucking asshole_.”

 

The snarl shocks both of us, but it’s not until Murphy turns to stare at me, eyes wide with the horrified realization as to what he’s actually done, that I grasp the words came from me. I didn’t even know I could sound like that. My throat burns and throbs horribly where he bit me, and I raise a trembling hand to brush at the wound. My fingertips come away with a faint smudge of red, and my eyes snap back to his.

 

“You…how could you… _what did you do to me, Murphy?_ ”

 

The flat, dangerous question hangs in the air between us. I don’t even know why I asked it; the answer is obvious, the evidence staining my fingers even as my glare intensifies. His mouth gapes wide, opening and closing silently as he pants, pushing himself back as if _he’s_ afraid of _me_ all of a sudden.

 

I’m sure he didn’t mean to actually hurt me, but I’m so out of my depth right now I can barely surface for air. The dream, the storm, the blind horror and despair of the last few days, mixed with this, and it’s all I can do not to pass out again.

 

“I didn’t...I’m so sorry, I didn’t…I never meant to, I would never...Grace, I’m-”

 

He reaches for me, a tremor running through his arm, anguish making his eyes bright and strange, and to my horror and shame, I jerk reflexively back. We both stare, shocked, at the empty space between us. If it weren’t for the thrashing of the storm outside, the room would be heavy with silence. As it is, the tension is crushing, and I scramble to my feet, shuddering with near hysteria as I practically sprint to the bathroom.

 

I slam the door on Murphy and whatever he’s trying to say. I just manage to turn the lock with my nerveless fingers before collapsing on the floor next to the bathtub. My arms circle my knees, gripping them to my chest to keep my heart from bursting right out of my ribcage. I have no clue what just happened, but I’m going to need...something...I don’t...I don’t know what I need. I need Connor, I need Rocco back, I need Murphy, undamaged and comforting and not terrifying and unstable.

 

I need to breathe.

 

After what could be forever or just a few minutes, Murphy knocks tentatively. Before he can say anything, I slam my fist against the pressboard in response, the door rattling pitifully in its cheap frame. Blistering anger scorches behind my face, and my throat raw as I force the words out.

 

“ _Fuck off, Murphy!_ If you want to fix this, if you ever want us to be okay after what just happened, give me a goddamn minute to convince myself you aren’t a _fucking psycho._ Get the fuck away from the door, or I’ll make you sorry you ever knocked _._ ”

 

There’s a solid minute of silence before I see his shadow move away from underneath the door. He doesn’t go far, though, and I hear a quiet groaning around where the sink and mirror would be. Though I don’t know for sure, I can almost see him, his hands clenching hard at the counter, his head hanging down, his shoulders rigid with…what? Anger? Frustration? Despair?

 

“ _Stupid motherfucker. Goddamn stupid motherfucker!”_

Even on the other side of the bathroom door, I shrink back from the venom in Murphy’s voice, but his words aren’t directed at me. The sounds of impact filter clearly through the flimsy excuse for a partition, heavy thuds of flesh on something solid, and it’s not longer before the shriek of shattering glass causes my stomach to twist and my toes to curl. After a final curse, I hear Murphy pad away from the counter and sink down on the bed.

 

Both my wrists ache abominably, especially the one that I slammed into the bedside table (which, of course, is the hand I used to hit the door). My neck throbs, and I reach out for the single unused washcloth. After washing the injury gently with cold tap water from the tub, I see that it never bled much, but I can only imagine how it looks. Fighting every tear that tries to force its way out, I keep rinsing the cloth out with fresh, cold water as I have no way to apply ice.

 

I feel trapped. I can’t…I can’t go out there. I know Murphy won’t hurt me…again. I know he didn’t mean to hurt me in the first place, but he lost control, and I don’t think I can deal with it. My stomach continues to and protest nauseatingly as I replay the scene over and over in my head, and for a moment, I’m absolutely sure I’m going to be sick.

 

It’s too much. I’ve lost too much, and I can’t lose him, either, but…I just…I can’t deal…I need someone, something...I need to just open the fucking door and confront Murphy, tell him to get his shit together better than that, but…My legs won’t lift me, my arms won’t do anything but hold my knees that much tighter to my abdomen.

 

Maybe I just need to sit here for a few more minutes, give him a little more time to cool off before I tear into him. Maybe I need to cool off a little myself. Maybe I need to wait until Connor comes back so we can at least have a referee. I just…I don’t know.

 

Whatever it is I need right now, though, it’s sure as hell not the unhinged stranger on the other side of the door.


	30. Chapter 30

_ It’s going to be okay. It is, I know it is. I just have to gather my thoughts, wait a few more minutes. Just breathe, breathe, just breathe. _

 

_ Let Murphy calm down, let myself calm down. We need to calm down, and it will be okay. Just breathe.  _

 

_ Where is Connor? If he’s next door, how did he not hear everything that just happened? He can’t be next door; he would’ve been over the second I started yelling, and if not, then definitely when Murphy broke the mirror, so he must be out somewhere. So, then, he should be back soon, and it will be okay. _

 

_ God, this door is fucking thin, I can hear every moment of that fucking storm, I need it to stop, to blow away, I need this whole storm to just blow away, but it won’t, and I’m going to get washed away if I don’t get out of this sinking boat, and- _

 

_ Is that even an option? Can I really just leave them? Can I walk away from the only family I’ve ev been able to trust? But… _

 

_ Can I trust them anymore? _

 

_ Can I trust myself or my own judgment anymore? _

 

_ It’s not going to be okay, is it? _

 

I don’t know how much time passes as I knock the back of my head rhythmically against the wall. I need something steady, something to pull my frenetic thoughts into line, and the rocking seems to help.

_ But what else could be wrong with Murphy? I don’t know what else could have happened. I mean, he wasn’t fine when we fell asleep this morning, but he wasn’t… _

 

_ Crazed.  _

 

_ He practically...I mean, I don’t want to use the word, but he...he attacked me.  _

 

_ But it wasn’t him. _

 

_ I mean, I know it was physically him, but Murphy just isn’t…he just doesn’t…that isn’t Murphy, he would never- _

 

_ But he did. _

I cringe as I realize I’m having an argument with myself about why my lover assaulted me.

_ Assaulted me. _

God, it sounds so awful when I put it like that.

_ But it felt even more awful when it was happening. _

_ I just… _

_ How the hell did we get here? What else could possibly have happened to push Murphy over the edge like that? _

 

_ It’s not going to be okay, is it? _

My head thumps against the wall a little harder; the rocking really is helping, it is, I just need a little more time to-

The outside door to the room creaks open and Connor’s voice filters through the paper-thin door, interrupting my train of thought.

“ ‘S matter wit’ ye, Murph? Ye look worse dan when I left; ye were s’posed to get some more sleep. Where’s Grace?”

I don’t hear Murphy’s mumbled response, but the tone of Connor’s voice changes suddenly, and his words still my rocking as I lean forward to catch as much of the conversation as I can.

“Why’re ye lookin’ so hang dog? T’fuck didja do, Murph? Ye didn’t tell ‘er, didja? We agreed we’d follow th’plan, tell ‘er th’way we worked out wit’ Smecker. What did…”

Connor’s voice fades into the background. What did Murphy not tell me? What plan? What the hell is going on? And exactly what the fuck does FBI Agent Paul Smecker have to do with anything they have to tell me?

 

I tentatively reach for the doorknob, but Connor’s voice rises, and I freeze in place. His tone is suspicious, brought on no doubt by whatever Murphy looks like right now. Knowing Murphy, I’d say his expression is a mix of belligerence, guilt, and shame on top of how exhausted and worn he already looked. I don’t know exactly where I got him with the back of my head, but I don’t think it could be bruising quite yet. It probably doesn’t look lovely, either.

“How long’s she been in dere, Murph?  _ What ain’t ye tellin’ me?” _

_ Shit _ . 

 

I need to get out there before this erupts. I start to speak, but my throat is strangely tight, and I have to clear it a couple of times as I turn the knob and tentatively step out.

“I’m right here, Connor.”

I’m concentrating on the floor, making sure I don’t step in any of the splintered glass littering the worn, stained carpet, so I don’t see their reactions to my entrance. I do, however, feel the exact moment the force of their gazes hits me. 

 

The hair on the back of my neck rises as an apprehensive thrill rolls down my spine. I look up to find two sets of eyes locked on me, piercing what little defenses I have left and leaving me feeling even more naked than I actually am. A purely coincidental crash of thunder and blaze of lightning meet at that moment, and I can feel my knees and my resolve weaken. As Connor takes in my naked, disarrayed appearance, he glances to where I had been looking at the floor a moment ago, and the skin tightens around his mouth and eyes, but he somehow stops himself from immediately commenting.

His visible struggle for patience wavers as he looks to me for explanation, but there’s no way I’m going to start this conversation. I shake my head solemnly as I pick my way over to the bed, and Connor’s face snaps furiously back to his brother, who is slumped at the foot of the mattress. He’s hunched over nearly double, his pale fingers clenched viciously into his hair, his bare shoulders strained and painfully rigid.

“Fuck’s goin’ on wit’ t’pair o’ye? I leave fer couple o’hours, an’ dis place looks like a battleground. One o’ye-”

He cuts off, and I realize he’s staring at my neck. I hadn’t thought he’d be able to see it from that far away in the pitiful lighting, and I had secretly been hoping we could either ease into the subject or maybe avoid it altogether.

I knew better, though. I don’t like conflict, but…this is too big to avoid.

Connor is across the room in three furious strides, but his fingers are gentle as he examines the bite. He searches my face silently for a moment before glancing down at my wrist, which I’m cradling in my opposite hand. Both of my arms are starting to show faint bruising, and I know they’ll look absolutely terrible tomorrow.

Without breaking eye contact with me, he tells Murphy to bring him the first aid kit.

“And put some fuckin’ clothes on.”

I can’t help the grimace that crosses my face as Connor probes my injured joint. He frowns but doesn’t speak, still waiting for one or both of us to begin explaining.

“I hit my wrist on the bedside table,” I offer quietly, unable to stand the choking silence any longer. I deliberately leave out how I came to hit my wrist on said bedside table. Murphy just as deliberately avoids looking directly at me or his brother as he sets the first aid kit on the edge of the bed nearest Connor and me, along with a pile of my clothes. I reach for a t-shirt, stubbornly struggling to dress on my own. 

 

Connor watches with growing exasperation as I struggle pitifully for a few minutes before he lets out an irritated grunt and tugs gently at my shirt to turn it in the right direction. Before I can respond, he helps me step into my jeans and carefully but insistently settles me on the bed.

Connor searches my face silently for a long moment, his silence saturated with disbelief. His mouth is a thin line of barely suppressed ire as he turns to my box of medical supplies and pulls out some antiseptic.

“Just th’ one wrist, den? Did it happen t’bruise both yer arms as well, love? In th’shape o’fingers?”

I’m amazed at his restraint. He’s had even less sleep than Murphy and me, and I know this whole disaster is weighing heavily on him, and yet he’s making obvious effort to be gentle with me. He’s not even pushing hard at getting an explanation out of us. This stalemate can’t last.

 

I endure Connor’s cleaning and dressing of my neck without comment. I can’t explain my wounds. I don’t know why Murphy acted the way he did, not really, and he’s got to be the one to explain himself. I’ve tried for nearly three years to never come between the two of them, not in any way that could damage their relationship, and I have the feeling that if the three of us are going to survive tonight with any sort of “us” left over, Murphy’s got to be the one to speak up.

Connor finishes pressing the tape into place around the bandage on my neck. He sighs for a moment, looking as worn down as I feel, then he delicately lifts my wrist from where I’m cradling it against me. I wince at the light pressure but force myself not to make a sound. I will live, and this is far from the worst injury I’ve received. His jaw clenches, and a muscles twitches beneath his left eye as he turns my arm in a couple of directions, none of which feel very pleasant.

“Dunno how damaged i’tis. Gonna wrap it fer now, we’ll get ye t’a proper doctor an let ‘im look at it t’see if it needs summat.” 

 

I sit as still as I can, enduring the discomfort as he tightly winds the elastic bandage around my wrist. He finally releases me and turns away, straightening and standing from his crouch to face both his brother and me. Murphy watches his brother warily from where he stands at the foot of the bed, his eyes shadowed and his arms crossed defensively. There’s a large red spot spreading from his temple down to his cheekbone that looks like it’s going to be quite the dramatic bruise tomorrow. His jaw tenses, and I can see his bottom lip tremble for a split second before he stills it, biting hard against the inside of his cheek.

“One or both of ye start talkin’ right th’fuck now. I ain’t got it in me to deal wit’ dis silent treatment bullshit. Fuckin’ spill it, already.”

Connor impresses me by holding out for a nearly a full minute before exploding. Never patient with his brother’s reticence in the first place, his tolerance for Murphy’s mulish silence snaps violently. He takes two steps towards his brother before fist connects with his Murphy’s jaw, sending him sprawling across the bed. I jerk back from the two of them in surprise, just managing to scramble up instead of falling as Connor lays into his brother, sickening thuds of flesh beating flesh swallowed up by another deafening thunder clap.

I’ve seen them fight before, seen them tear into their friends, perfect strangers, Rocco. Hell, they destroyed my living room. I know what they’re both capable of, and all that is bad enough, but this…this is worse than anything I’ve seen them do.

Connor pounds into his brother, screaming curses and incoherent threats that turn my stomach almost as much as the sound of his fists connecting with his brother’s body. To my horror, Murphy takes every hit, barely bothering to curl up defensively to spare himself any pain, and it’s not even thirty seconds before the sheets are splattered with Murphy’s blood. I don’t know if his nose is broken, but it’s got to be close, and his abdomen is splotched deep red everywhere that Connor’s blows land. His face is not long from becoming a pulpy mess, and I know this can’t go on much longer.

I don’t even know how I stood the first few seconds, but when I hear a crunch as Connor’s fist slams into Murphy’s cheek, I launch myself at Connor and grab his arms at the biceps, struggling fiercely to pull him back.

“Stop, damn it!” I shriek frantically, digging my heels into the carpet and straining backwards as hard as I can. “ _ You’re going to kill him, Connor, stop! _ ” I know Connor won’t kill his brother, somewhere deep inside I really do know that, but in the midst of this insanity, I don’t know if he can stop himself.

 

Without any warning, Murphy launches himself off the bed, laying into Connor with equal ferocity. Taken completely by surprise, Connor, jerks back away from his brother’s attack, and I lose my grip, ricocheting off the dresser and faceplanting hard on the floor next to the sink.

 

I start to push myself up, but a stabbing pain in my left palm stops me short, and I swear loudly, jerking my hand back. The movement of my cheek as I curse sends a streak of fire across the side of my face, leaving me gasping as my breath locks in my lungs. I reach up with my uninjured hand, and my fingers come away dripping crimson.

 

“Grace, yer face! What-”

 

“The glass,” Connor growls, suddenly behind me. He lifts me from the carpet. My legs sting fiercely, but it’s nothing to the throbbing of my face and hand. I can feel the bile rising in my throat as my temper flares, and It’s all I can do to wait until I’m steady on my feet. The moment I have my balance and am clear of the glass, I yank myself from Connor’s grasp.

 

“Don’t fucking touch me, either of you.”

 

I can’t stand the sight of either of them right now, much less even the thought of their hands on me.

 

“Is your dad next door?” I ask, my jaw clenched as I move my mouth as little as possible. Twin looks of anxious confusion cross Connor and Murphy’s face as they glance at each other. Under most circumstances, I’m typically amused by the “twin sense” they share: duplicate emotions, telepathic communication, the works. Not this time. I’m done with this shit, just absolutely done.

 

“Lass, yer face...we need ta-”

 

“I am fully aware that my face is bleeding!” I snap and immediately regret the abrupt speech as a tearing sensation snaps along my cheek. I count to five deliberately, my uninjured hand clenching hard, cutting my nails into my palm.

 

“Just answer the fucking question, Connor. Is your father nextdoor?”

 

“Aye, but-”

 

I snatch the first aid kit from the bed and stalk over to the dividing door, ignoring both Connor and Murphy. I’m done with their immature, macho bullshit. They get in a fight, and my stuff gets destroyed. They get in a fight, my best friend ends up dead. They get in a fight, and now I’m going to have at least two more scars to add to my collection.

 

_ I don’t care how fair it is to blame them right now _ , I think as I jerk open to door between the two rooms and cross the threshold. I’m hurting, too, and I don’t go around attacking people because of it.

 

I turn back to them, and my vision is shaky and infuriatingly blurry as I stare them down. 

 

“Go back to beating the shit out of each other. I don’t want to see you again until you can act like adult humans instead of violent, immature assholes. I’m leaving, and don’t you dare try to stop me. We’re all hurting here, and I’m-”

 

I cut myself off. I refuse to say I’m sorry now. I’ve said it too much already, and if I said it now, it would be a lie. It hurts to talk, it hurts to breathe, it hurts to fucking exist.

 

“I can’t deal with either of you anymore today. I need some space. I nee... I just need some fucking space. So, beat each other to death or whatever the fuck you feel like doing, but leave me out of it.”

 

I close the door on them, deliberately refusing to notice a single detail about either of their expressions, and firmly snap the lock into place. Noah watches me from the rickety chair by the desk, the end of a cigar smoldering in the ashtray next to him. His eyes are grave and concerned, but he remains blessedly silent as I cross the room and offer him the first aid kit. We stare at each other wordlessly for a long moment, his inscrutable expression softening into a sympathetic grimace.

 

“I need a little help,” I finally whisper. The anger has burned off, leaving me limp, shaky, and thoroughly miserable. “I don’t know if there’s glass in the cuts, and I don’t think I can take it out of myself if there is.” 

 

What a perfect metaphor for my life right now.

 

He nods sagely, graciously keeping his thoughts to himself, and searches the kit for tweezers. Despite his lack of comment, I get the feeling Noah understands. Either that, or he’s very good at pretending. I settle into the chair across from him, bracing myself. I decide to take a leaf out of Noah’s book, and as he gently tugs a splinter of glass from my face, I pretend like nothing hurts at all. 

 

Not a single bit.


	31. Chapter 31

_Breathe._

 

_Just...you can do this._

 

_One more minute. Survive one more minute._

 

_It doesn’t hurt that bad. You've been injured way worse than this before. December hurt a hell of a lot worse._

 

_Especially when it took so long to finally talk with…_

 

_Breathe._

 

_Okay, you made it another minute. That’s one more minute than you had before. Go for another._

 

_Smecker will be here any second, and then you can figure out what to do next._

 

_You probably need to talk to…_

 

_Come on, thirty more seconds makes a whole other minute. You can do this._

 

_Breathe. Just breathe. In, out. Inhale, exhale._

 

_Repeat._

 

_Repeat._

 

_One more minute._

 

_One more._

 

We’ve been sitting in the diner for nearly thirty minutes before Noah speaks. Despite the noise level (dishes and pans clattering, patrons buzzing over the blaring of the news station on the television, the nonstop cacophony of my own internal monologue), the concern in his voice comes across clearly.

 

“Ye don’t have to be nervous around me, lass. Ain’t gonna hurt ye.”

 

I’m startled enough to stop chewing on my thumbnail; I haven’t done anything since we spoke this morning to indicate that he’s frightening me, so I don’t know why he would think…

 

Oh...I guess the continuous nail biting and distressed silence on my part might have something to do with his concern. And the random bouts of brief but uncontrolled sobbing and shaking. That’s probably not reassuring him regarding my mental stability, either.

 

“Believe it or not, you’re actually the last thing I’m nervous about right now,” I sigh, pulling my nail from between my teeth where I’ve been worrying at it for the last few minutes. My stomach is alternating between growling and lurching, depending on whether I’m thinking about eating real food for the first time in two days or refusing to think about Connor and Murphy. I feel like I haven’t eaten in a week, but I’m worried that if I try to get anything down right now, it’ll either hurt the cut on my face too much, or it will come right back up.

 

Noah frowns across the cheap formica table at me, concern deepening what would be an intimidating scowl if I thought his anger were directed at me. The fluorescent lighting overhead does nothing to soften the baleful glint of his eyes under his hawkish brows, but I’ve come to realize in the last day or so that I’ve known him that Noah simply has resting wrath face.

 

I don’t know when I stopped being afraid of him, but I find myself relaxing enough under the comforting weight of his regard that I actually manage to not implode under the weight of my anxiety. I realize that I’m actually almost as comfortable around him as I’ve only ever been with Connor, Murphy, and Rocco, able to let my guard down and actually trust him.

 

Noah's presence, while generally terrifying, has done wonders to soothe my frazzled nerves, dropping my frantic energy down from the “pacing, screaming, and throwing things” level to the “chewing on my fingers and fretting, as long as I don’t think too hard” level.

 

Hell, I’m practically Zen.

 

Besides, there’s no point in going full-blown panic mode until I know what to actually be scared of next, right?

 

“Is dere somet’tin’ besides t’obvious dat’s eatin’ at ye?”

 

I’m saved from spouting out my mile-long list of issues by the fifth appearance of the haggard waitress whose name tag reads “Gladys ;)”. She demands to know what we want in a tone that strongly implies it had better be something simple and quick. As we’ve been waving her off for more than thirty minutes waiting for Smecker, I figure I should order something before she throws us out.

 

I go for my usual diner fare of cheeseburger and fries, needing the comfort of something familiar, while Noah sticks to his black coffee. I can’t tell whether our orders have pleased or displeased her, but “Gladys ;)” bustles off behind the counter to share her perpetual displeasure with the cook, who takes the order and verbal abuse in stride and disappears into the hazy kitchen.

 

When I called Smecker, he said he’d be here as soon as he could; I was purposefully unclear about why I needed to see him, both hoping to hurry him along and to catch him off guard enough that he might actually tell the truth. Not that I wanted to call the agent in the first place, but I need questions answered, and he’s the only person I know who has information I want. Something Connor said to Murphy, something about a plan and Smecker and telling me...I’ve got to know, and I can’t stomach the thought of talking to the boys right now. Noah had no idea when I asked him, so that leaves the agent.

 

The problem is I’m just so...scared. I can’t stay focused on anything for longer than a couple of minutes, and even when I can, my thoughts don’t make much sense even to me. I feel shattered and wrung out, and I really don’t know how many more system shocks I can take, so I don’t know where to begin when he gets here.

 

I’m sliced and bandaged and bruised, and more parts of me hurt like hell than I remember actually getting injured. God knows what I look like right now, but Noah assures me he was able to get all the blood off my face, since I refused to look in a mirror before we left.

 

At any rate, I’m sure Smecker will have questions about my appearance that I don’t want to answer, and I have several questions about these plans that I’m sure he won’t want to answer. This whole mess would be hard enough to deal with even if I could keep my head on straight, but then my thoughts start wandering, my hands start shaking, my eyes are leaking, and Noah starts giving me _that_ look again, and…

 

I just have to push through the pain. Suck it up. Let it go. Deal with it.

 

_Fucking breathe already, Grace._

 

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you what's wrong,” I finally reply. “You’re actually really easy to talk to. It’s more that I really don’t…”

 

I hesitate before voicing my main concern. I don’t know Agent Smecker, not really, and he has definitely gone way above and beyond to cover up not only the boys’ mess, but also my bungling at the crime scene. He helped us all hole up after the plan blew up in our faces. He’s working to keep us safe.

 

So why am I so on edge whenever he’s around or even mentioned? I mean, yeah, so he has a rather disturbing amount of influence on the future of my...well, everything...

 

Also, I know how messed up I look right now, based on the sideways glances we’ve received from the other diner patrons since we walked in. With the gauze on my face covering the butterfly bandages, the giant bandage on my neck, the bruises that are blossoming spectacularly up and down my arms, and the elastic bandage around my wrist, I’m sure I look like the survivor of some gory slasher film.

 

I have no idea how to tell Smecker what happened with Connor and Murphy, or really if I even should. On the one hand, it’s none of his business. On the other hand, how is it going to make the boys look if I blatantly avoid the subject since I wasn’t in such bad shape when Smecker last saw me, so...I don’t know.

 

Fuck it. I’ve got to talk to _someone_.

 

“I just don’t fully trust Agent Smecker. There’s something off when he looks at me. He’s just so...I don’t know...calculating, I guess? Way more calculating than I‘m comfortable with, at least, like he’s assessing me for weak points and leverage every time he looks at me. And I don't like how much Connor and Murphy and I need him right now. I feel like I can’t let him see me so messed up and...needy. I...I don’t know, I just feel like we’re all relying on him way too much, and I just...don’t...I don’t trust him,” I finish lamely.

 

I lift my eyes to meet Noah’s hesitantly, not knowing whether I’ll find understanding for my worries or scorn at my paranoia. Noah regards me gravely for a moment before slowly nodding; a knot in my chest I wasn’t even aware of eases, and suddenly I can breathe a little easier.

 

“He’s good at his job,” Noah remarks. “Makes him a liability fer someone on t’wrong side of t’law, an’ I’m bettin’ dis is t’first time ye find yerself in such a position.”

 

Prone figures in a dark, wintry alley immediately flash to mind, but I stay silent.

 

“Being dat dependent on anudder fer yer safety ain’t a comfterble place t’be, either. S’like livin’ on yer own fer a while den goin’ back t’live wit’ yer folks an’ dem tryin’ t’make decision fer ye an’ tell ye how t’do yer work. S’why I’m backin’ off from t’lads so much, not try’ t’tell ‘em what t’do, even though th’Lord knows they need a hard kick in t’arse right about now. Don’t want ‘em t’inkin’ I’m tryin’ t’control ‘em after I had no hand in even raisin’ ‘em.”

 

“Maybe...maybe that's part of the reason I resent him,” I hazard, making a conscious effort to keep my cuticles away from my teeth. “My parents weren't even close to the hands-on type, so I maybe I’m just chafing at having someone else telling me and mine what to do and where to go, et cetera.”

 

Except I’ve never really had an issue with authority, so…

 

“Ye don't look convinced,” he observes astutely. Seriously, I’m going to need the MacManus men to share the secret to their telepathic powers one of these days.

 

“Gladys ;)” once more saves me from answering with the timely arrival of my food. Noah is content to let me dig into my cheeseburger in companionable silence, a task which requires a surprising amount of concentration due to my myriad of injuries. My injured wrist and the cut across my palm makes holding the burger a chore and my cheek stretches and burns under the butterfly bandages with every bite I take, but goddammit, I will not be denied my burger.

 

I go at my food with a grim determination until only a few lonely fries remain. Having offered them to Noah, who politely declines, I settle back, resting my head against the squeaky vinyl of the booth and closing my eyes against the harsh, fluorescent glare of the overhead lights.

 

I just need to focus on waiting and keeping my food down. Some ridiculous little part of me thinks if I can just keep my food down, then the day might turn out alright after all. One more little victory, yeah?

 

I am weary to my bones. There’s too much to think about, too much to figure out. My boys are losing it; if there was ever a time they needed me, it’s now. Murphy is beyond distraught. He’s slipping, I know that much, and I'm pretty sure he’s drowning in grief. He’s cracking, and he needs my help. I know he would never knowingly hurt me like that, but what if...I mean, I don’t even know what set him off. Did he have a bad dream? Did he just get carried away?

 

And Connor...God, he’s just so angry. I’ve never seen him so wretched and enraged before, so out of control, not even when I got hurt in December. When he tore into Murphy, for one terrifying moment, I was afraid that he might not stop, and...

 

I’m so angry at both of them, but once I get past my injuries (which I _know_ were accidents), I realize that I don’t even know who or what I’m mad at. They were stupid assholes, but they’re always stupid assholes, and they didn’t mean to hurt me. I know they didn’t, it’s just…

 

 _Breathe_.

 

And I finally have to admit to myself that I’m not just angry, either. I’m flat out terrified. We’re all falling apart, and I’m so afraid we're all toppling in different directions, and we won’t ever be able to fit back together. The pieces of our lives are disintegrating, and I don’t know...I just...

 

Smecker’s arrival coincides with my ordering a slice of apple pie for no other reason than to give myself a focal point that isn’t inside my head. He asks the waitress to bring out the same for him, plus coffee. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, slipping one between his lips and flicking his lighter to life.

 

“Since your phone call was so delightfully vague,” Smecker begins, lighting up and inhaling before he even sits down, “would you mind letting me in on the oh-so-important reason for this meeting that couldn’t even wait until I was done for the day?”

 

I glance at the clock hanging above the kitchen window and turn a questioning eyebrow on him. “It’s after nine. When would you like to me to call? Midnight?”

 

“Some of us don’t work a cushy, neat, little nine to five office job,” he snaps just as the cell phone clipped to his waist buzzes. He glances at the device then ignores it, turning his considerable ire back in my direction as he settles into the booth next to Noah. He exhales slowly, facing off squarely with me and generally inexplicably ignoring Noah entirely after a brusque nod of greeting.

 

I open my mouth, ready to snap another retort in his direction, but a tiny shake of Noah’s head reminds me this is neither the time nor the place. I need Smecker, we all need his help right now, and the last thing I need to do is antagonize him, no matter how much he needles me. I close my eyes, slowly sucking in a breath through my nose before letting it out and looking him calmly and directly in the face and mustering every bit of sincerity I have left in me.

 

“You’re right. You're busy. I get it, and I’m sorry for interrupting your work, but I need help, and I need information, and you’re me best chance of getting both right now. I didn't have anyone else left to ask, and you said I could call you if I needed help.”

 

He takes his time replying, assessing each of my injuries with inscrutable eyes over the rim of his mug (good God, who the hell puts Sweet and Low and _lemon_ in their coffee?). His face is worryingly blank as he takes in the scrapes, bruises, and bandages. I notice his eyes lingering in the vicinity of my cheek and wrist, but I remain resolutely silent. I remind myself that if ever I need a good poker face, it’s with this man.

 

“Trouble in paradise?” he remarks blandly.

 

“Fuck you.”

 

My blood is up, and the remark is out before I can stop it. A smirk flickers across Smecker’s face, and my jaw clenches when I realize I’m rising to his taunt. My pulse spikes to sprinting pace as I glare across the table at the miserable bastard. How fucking dare he-

 

I feel a gentle nudge against my foot under the table reminding me to reign in my temper. Noah placidly receives my redirected fury, giving me a gentle nod before I am finally able to convince myself not to hurl my empty plate right into Smecker’s smug fucking face.

 

Another breath.

 

“Please don't bait me,” I say as evenly as I can from between gritted teeth. “I get that you and I are not...whatever we should be in order to get along, but let's just...look, I will try if you will, but please don’t fucking bait me.”

 

To my surprise, his shoulders droop a little, and he sets his coffee down so he can scrub exhaustedly at his face with both hands. I was too keyed up when he walked in to notice how drawn and worn-down he looks, not nearly as put-together as when I saw him a few hours ago. The shadows under his eyes are almost as pronounced as mine, and the lines in his face seem more deeply drawn than earlier. His hair looks like he’s run his fingers through it a few too many times, and both his sleeves are raggedly rolled up past his elbows.

 

God, was that only this afternoon? I feel like it was last week.

 

“You’re right,” he finally says after a long, tired drag on his cigarette. “Let's just...stick to the main points and keep the personal stuff personal. I told you to call me if you needed anything, and I meant it. What do you need?”

 

“What plan did you and Connor and Murphy come up with?” I ask abruptly, getting right to my main concern, hoping to catch him at least a little off balance. “They mentioned something about a plan they worked out with you, and I’d like to know what that is. Noah said he left to take a walk before you three started in on that part of the discussion, so I’d appreciate it if you could fill me in.”

 

“You didn’t think to ask your boyfriends before dragging me out here?” Smecker says, his eyes narrowing with annoyance. “You three not talking now? They seemed pretty intent on getting you back; I figured you were fine with them. What happened?”

 

I bite the inside of my cheek hard to keep from replying as my face flushes hot and angry. “You-“

 

I stop to clear the lump that suddenly forms in my throat before starting again.

 

“You said to leave the personal stuff personal. That’s none of your business. If there’s a plan that you came up with that involves me, don’t you think I should get information from the source?”

 

“Unfortunately for the both of us, your love life is very much my business at this point,” he says. He sounds tired at first, but the longer he talks, the more heat his words gain, burning into me with the fire of accusation. His fingers clench, contracting around his cigarette to the point where I'm afraid he might cut it in half.

 

“Are your boys the type to go off on you like that whenever they get angry, or is this a special occasion? Have they hurt you like this before, or was this some moment of insanity? If I’m supposed to trust them, I need to know what kind of guys they are. They say they want to get rid of the bad guys, but how can I trust them if they’re just as bad as the slime they’re getting rid of?”

 

I have to stop myself from physically shrinking away from him as he continues his incensed  tirade.

 

“And despite what you think of me,” he adds, his red rimmed eyes blazing as he visibly works to get his temper back under control, “I don’t trust men who do this to someone they claim to care about. I may be an asshole, but I don’t hurt women.”

 

“They didn’t-” I start, but he cuts me off with a disbelieving scoff. Despite how angry I was with Connor and Murphy not two hours ago, my own fury rises to meet Smecker’s, fueled by his quick assumption of the boys’ guilt.

 

“Neither of them did anything to me on purpose,” I hiss. “Yeah, Murphy hurt me, but he’s crazy with grief and didn’t know what he was doing. He was horrified when he realized what he’s done. And the rest..”

 

My stomach drops suddenly, and my expression must fall similarly because Smecker actually stays silent after my outburst, his face relatively neutral as he lets me sort through the realization that has just slapped me in the face.

 

“I...they...it was an accident, and they...they both...they didn't mean to hurt me. I...I jumped in when I shouldn’t have. They were fighting, and I...I got in the way.”

 

Silence.

 

“Again,” I practically whisper. My cheeseburger sits like a brick in my stomach as the repercussions of what I’ve done twice over in the last forty-eight hours hits me fully. Murphy begged me not to do something stupid like this again. I want to help people, want to protect them, so I run straight into situations I have no business being in the middle of, and...I get hurt.

 

The alley in December...Yakavetta’s house...Connor and Murphy’s fight. God, when am I going to learn? No wonder Murphy is having a breakdown, after watching Rocco die and then he and Connor can’t find me and then he finds out that I...

 

My skin flashes nauseatingly between hot shame and cold dread as my eyes slide up to meet Smecker’s suddenly sympathetic gaze. I know what the boys talked to him about now, and he knows it.

 

“They told you to find some place to send me, didn’t they?” I ask quietly, not needing Smecker’s short nod in reply. “I’m too much of a liability for them. I’m...I’m too much of a risk to their...mission.”

 

I practically choke on the wave of bitterness that comes with my last word, and my lips clamp down hard together to cover the absolute devastation that washes over me. They...they can’t...They wouldn’t. They promised me, they begged me to stay, and…

 

And...

 

And everything is different now.

 

Rocco is dead. They know they can lose now, know that even if God did give them this mission, He isn’t going to make it easy for them. And they can’t trust me to stay safe, to stay out of the way.

 

So they’re going to, what, stick me in the cupboard until it's safe to come out?

 

“And you three thought I'd just passively go along with your plan?” I hiss, fingers gripping the table's edge as if it’s the only thing holding me to the earth. “You figure you all know best for me, the fuck-up vigilante girlfriend, and you'll just find a safe place to stash me for a while? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

 

I have to hold tighter to the table, have to get my fingers into the plastic so nothing can pull me away, not overbearing boyfriends or rogue FBI agents or my own rapidly disintegrating sense of reality.

 

“I’m the fucking FBI agent controlling this investigation from the inside and keeping those two _and you_ out of prison,” Smecker replies, his voice hard and pitiless as his eyes flash a warning I have no intention of heeding. He exhales, stabbing two fingers in my direction, the glowing butt of his cigarette clenched fiercely between them.“You are a loose cannon and a fucking liability, missy, so don’t think for a second I’m going to let you-”

 

“Let me what?!” I spit out, cutting him off. “Decide the course of my own life with the only two people whose opinions count? Because you are not in charge of me, regardless of what you've done for me.”

 

“And don’t think for a second, Agent Smecker,” I add, my own voice bitter enough to match even his, “that you can send the three of us to prison without you going down, as well. If I get even a hint that you’re planning on turning on us, I will turn myself in with a full confession, and we’ll see what comes of your case and your fucking mission then.”

 

My little speech bounces off Smecker like dandelion seeds against a tree. No matter how much backbone I might have developed in the last few days, this is a seasoned agent used to dealing with much more intimidating figures than me, and my bluff is as ineffective as a paper airplane in a hurricane.

 

He stares me down silently, disapproval and disgust etched clearly in every line of his face, until I feel every bit of my righteous indignation drain away. My resolve starts to crumble, and when he finally speaks, doubt seeps deep into the cracks, eating away at what little willpower I have left.

 

“You are too dangerous to the mission. You can’t be trusted to follow instructions, even to keep yourself out of danger. And now you think you can threaten me with petty little comments about my career against the magnitude of what I’m proposing Connor and Murphy could accomplish? They could bring down one of Boston’s worst criminals, a fucking murderer, and you want to throw that all to hell because, what? I make you uncomfortable?”

 

“And if your guys are worried about you,” he adds, and I know this is the crux of his argument, “they are unfocused, and they _will_ get hurt. Maybe even make a fatal mistake. If I’m unfocused, have to worry about one of your little temper tantrums because you aren’t the center of their attention anymore, I can't watch out for them as much as I should. Is that what you want? You want their deaths on your conscience on top of what you've already done?”

 

A sharp stab of shame streaks through my chest, and I open my mouth to reply, but I can’t. I want to deny all the horrible things he’s accusing me of, but...isn’t he at least a little right? I’m not the most important thing in their lives, and that has burned me from the start of this fucked up misadventure.

 

Smecker’ phone goes off once again, it’s shrill tone screeching the conversation to a halt. He ignores the first set of rings, watching my face for any sign of give, but when the phone starts in on a second round of alerts, he snaps the phone open and answers with a curt, “Smecker. Make it fucking quick.”

 

Though his expression remains inscrutable, the tension in our booth thickens to the point of painfulness. The fury in Smecker’s eyes flares, alarming in its intensity. He listens silently for a long time, not asking a single question as the call goes on, the quiet in the booth palpable and nearly unbearable.  
  
“I’m leaving now,” he barks at whoever is on the other end of the call. “Keep everyone but arson out of the scene; give me twenty minutes.” He slams the phone shut, his fingers tightening around it until the plastic creaks in protest. He takes a long, slow breath, and a tremor runs through his hand as he stabs out what’s left of his cigarette.

 

When he finally acknowledges me again, his head is bowed towards the table so I can’t see anything of his face. His tone, however, is rigid, quietly vicious, and utterly unforgiving.  
  
“Connor and Murphy believe they are doing the right thing, that this whole shit storm is their calling. I find myself at odds recently with what the law says and what I know is right, and it was something of an awakening to find men who not only feel the same way but actually have the balls to act on those feelings.”  
  
Paul Smecker lifts his face to mine, and I’m taken aback by the fierce determination blazing in his eyes. “Your boys, as you call them, believe in this mission. I believe in this mission, and I believe in them. I believe what they’re doing is right, and I’m going to do whatever I can to help them. I thought you believed the same thing, but now I know differently.”  
  
I find my voice again as he’s standing to leave, tossing a few dollar bills on the table for his coffee and untouched pie.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Your dead friend’s mother’s house burned down. Luckily, she was out of town visiting family, but in addition to telling her that her only child is dead, now we get to tell her that she’s lost everything else and has to go into protective custody, as well. It’s only dumb fucking luck that she wasn’t in the house at the time of the fire.”  
  
I force myself to meet his gaze, to hold it despite the tremor in my arms and the dread in my stomach, but he speaks again before I can figure out what I should even say.  
  
“This is why you have to leave them. You think you’ll be okay with Connor and Murphy, that they can do these jobs and keep you safe, that you can be with them and not believe in their mission. But this is what Yakavetta does. He will find out about you if he hasn’t already, and he will kill you, and that will absolutely break them. And then Yakavetta will have them exactly where he wants them, and everything they’ve done, everything they could do, hell, even your friend’s life, will be for absolutely fucking nothing. Is that what you want?”  
  
I...  
  
“Think really hard about your next move, because all of your lives literally depend on it.” He lets those words sink in, watching the maelstrom of emotions wash over my face.

 

“This calling is more important than you, more important than your relationship, more important than me or anything any of us have done in our entire lives. This is a chance to right a hell of a lot of wrongs, to take some seriously evil people out of the world, literally make the world a better place. Who are you to stand in the way of that?”

 

 I...I am nothing in the face of all that.

 

Sensing the crumbling of my defenses, Smecker sets an alarmingly gentle hand on my shoulder.

 

“Call me when you decide to do the right thing,” he says, squeezing my shoulder for emphasis before turning and leaving me with the fractured ruins of my life lying at my feet like so much detritus.

  
“Lass...”  
  
In the wreckage of the conversation, I’ve completely forgotten Noah is even there. His hand covers mine gently, but I can barely feel it. I’m numb all over, dazed and obliterated. Am I...am I really standing in the way of everything Smecker said? I believed Connor and Murphy when they said they could get some gangsters and a few bad guys off the street, but...God, seriously, making the whole world a better place?

 

Could they really do that? Am I really in the way off something that vital?

 

And Rocco’s mother….God, that beautiful house...The delicate furniture and knitted covers; the aqua tiles and out of date but well cared for furniture in the quaint little kitchen. All those pictures...proof that my friend lived and loved and was happy, curled up and burnt to ash. Every physical piece of Rocco destroyed and swept away by this disaster, like the universe is trying to wipe away all traces of him.  
  
“Is...is he right?” I whisper brokenly. I can’t see Noah’s expression, my blurred vision focusing on our joined hands. His fingers tighten around mine, but he either won’t or can’t answer.  
  
“I can’t...they’re...they’re so, so stupid, both of them, and this whole mess is...it’s not...they’re so stupid, but they’re mine. I’m theirs. That’s...that’s how this works. They’re my...my family. They’re...they’re all I have. Do I have to give them up?”  
  
I know now why Murphy was so wrecked, why Connor tore into him so badly. They can’t want this any more than I do, but they see...they...they understand better than me, they have to understand better than me because...  
  
Because...  
  
I don’t want to go.


	32. 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Siarh for this chapter and the last.

_ "Holy shit! What the fuck, man?!" Oh, that was…that was definitely the opening line I've been planning for all these weeks, let me tell you. My heart feels like it's going to thud cheerfully right out of my throat, and I can't decide if I'm more startled or pissed. I mean, I don't know this guy from Adam. For all I know, he could be some sort of freak serial killer or something, and now he's staring at me? While I sleep. How fucked up is that? _

_ … _

_ The second guy turns on his stool as we approach, and I know immediately this has to be Connor's brother. They obviously aren't identical twins or anything, but there's something intangible there. Maybe the shape of their faces or their raw good looks. Maybe their piercing blue eyes. _

_ Or maybe just the cocky smirk (saw one just like it on Connor back on the subway) tugging at the corner of his mouth when he spots my hand in his brother's. That's probably it. _

_ "So's this th'girl ye been stalkin' on the train, there, Connor?" Oh, so that's where I left my blush; apparently it was in this bar I've never been to before with a bunch of people I've never met. Should have checked there first. _

_... _

_ He fixes me with that piercing blue stare that bores right down to the center of my insecurities. _

 

_ "Dontcha think I'd tell ye if I was gettin' tired of ye?" _

 

_ I shrug uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze, but he puts a finger to my chin and tilts my face back toward his. _

 

_ "Did it ever occur t'ye that Connor and I choose t'spend all that time wit'ye?" _

 

_ Well, no, not really. _

_ … _

_ "Lass, ye practically kicked me an' Murphy t'the curb yesterday with no warnin'. Ye forbid us visitation rights, then ye freak out at us. We knew somethin' was wrong, that's why Murph came t'visit ye last night in spite of what ye said." _

 

_ His eyes narrow a little more. "Murph an' I, we take care of what's ours. Period. We aren't gonna get tired of ye. If we need some space, ye should know ye'd be the first t'know. I thought you'd know that about us by now. Why would we keep somethin' like that from ye?" _

_ … _

_ "We've grown up very differently, me compared to you and Murphy. I didn't have the strict upbringing of right and wrong and that sort of thing that I'm pretty sure you did. I've had to work most of it out for myself by watching the shit that happens around me." _

 

_ He opens his mouth, but I hold my hand up. "Hang on, just let me finish, then I'll answer anything you want. What I do know is that there are some things that are right or wrong depending entirely on who's looking at it. But there are some things that are wrong no matter who you are and why you do it. That much I do understand." _

 

_ "It's not that I don't care about the things on the news, about all the horrible stuff that happens that doesn't even make the news. It's not that I don't think it's wrong and horrible, because I really, really do. I guess it's that I feel like if I actively and openly care about some of it, I'll have to actively and openly care about all of it, and I don't think I could handle that. I mean, you see how I get when I watch movies with sad endings. Hell, look how I get at movies with happy endings. I cry at everything, Connor." _

_ … _

_ "Connor, I don't know what it is that the three of us have going, but I'm sure as hell not done with the two of you yet, and I'm much more likely to get even than to get out." _

_ … _

_ "That's partly why I got so attached to you," I reluctantly admit, "and the main reason why I was so afraid of pushing you away. You both want me around, and there doesn't seem to be a catch like there is with most people. You have to understand that's not something I've experienced much of in my life, and the last thing I want to ever do is lose you." _

 

_ "S'pose I might be fond of ye, as well," he murmurs, pressing his lips into my hair. _

_ … _

_ As Murphy's gaze finds mine in the mirror, I see something in him now that unsettles me: a side of him, just a small part that I've never seen before; something deep that I have a sudden, instinctual desire to fall into. As open as he's always been with me, I wonder that I've never seen this depth in him. I wonder just how deep this part of him goes and how far I'd have to fall to be able to find out. What would I have to let go of in order to fall, and why is it I'm so afraid of this release? _

 

_ I have a single, surreal instant where I wonder if Murphy and I are really seeing each other for the first time, and whether I've been found wanting. And without a word, Murphy lets me know that I haven't. _

 

_ And that's my undoing. _

_ … _

_ "I've got ye," he says, his voice low and steady. He kisses the top of my head, running calming fingers through my hair. "Y'ain't alone dis time, I'm right here wit'ye, an' m'not gonna let anyt'in' happen. Yer safe, an' ye don't have to be alone in dis anymore." _

_... _

_ "How the hell do you know I haven't told them yet, Roc?" I ask. "I thought this kind of conversation was girly stuff that guys don't talk about. You can't possibly tell me you three have discussed this." _

 

_ "Because you walk around all the time lookin' like you want to spill some sort of secret but you're afraid to. Can't think of anything else you'd be keepin' to yourself. Besides, I didn't really know 'til just now, anyway." _

 

_ "You are insufferable, and I may decide not to buy you dessert," I snap, stuffing a couple of fries in my mouth before I say anything else. _

 

_ "Honey, that ain't even the worst thing I've been called today," he laughs at me before polishing off his own burger. "So which part are we at in the chick flick yet? Do we paint nails and eat ice cream now? I'm okay with the ice cream, but I gotta tell ya, pink don't do much for these fingers." _

_ … _

_ "For Christ's fucking sake! You want me to tell you what I've been afraid to say? Fine! I fucking love you, alright? Are you happy now? Jesus!" _

 

_ "Lord's name, lass, an' I love ye, as well. S'matter o'fact, I am fair content. S'middle o'th'night, got me arms around th'woman of m'dreams who finally admitted she loves me, an'm fair on me way t'celebratin' this glorious revelation…Care t'join in?" _

 

_ "You…just…you're just okay with saying it like that? Just spitting it out like it's the easiest thing in the world to say and doesn't change everything?" _

 

_ "Far's I'm concerned, nothin's changed 'cept maybe you'll feel a little better. Loved ye fer a long while now. Can't put me finger on when, exactly, but 'm glad ye finally got around t'sharin' wit'th'whole class. Didn't want t'push ye; know ye haven't had a lotta practice sayin' it. Figured it'd be easier fer me to say it den fer you, so I gave ye th'time I thought ye'd need. Was I wrong?" _

 

_ "I…no…no, you weren't wrong.” _

_... _

_ “I can’t...no, I will not accept it if you ever do that to me again. I know I said no ultimatums, but this was the worst thing. This was...you cannot do this to me again.” _

_ Connor’s hand tightens against my face before sliding around to my back and pulling me closer until I’m pressed against his chest. I'm not crying, thank God, but I will if he speaks so much as a word to me right now. Murphy grumbles in his sleep at my sudden absence and cuddles closer, his arm curling around my waist again. _

_ Connor tucks my head under his chin and holds me silently for a long time. Just as I'm starting to drift off, he whispers, “Not ever again, Grace.” _

_... _

_ “What does this mean?” I ask. “For the three of us?” _

_ They share a look, and Murphy speaks this time. I get the feeling they’ve discussed this part beforehand, and I'm grateful they know me well enough to expect this question. _

_ “Means we’re yours an’ yer ours fer as long as ye want us. Means if we lose our tempers, we’ll tell ye we need time b’fore we leave. Means we'll see to it yer safe an’ protected, even if we can’t always be the ones to t’do it, even if dat means makin’ sure ye c’n take care o’yerself. We’re in it til yer done wit’ us lass.” _

_ “Will ye have us even after us bein’ such arseholes?” Connor asks after a moment of hesitation, sensing something deeper in my silence. _

_ There's no question about that answer, either. _

_ “For as long as you’ll have me.” _

_ … _

_ Both of them speak to me, filthy promises and tender words, their voices soft and flowing and overlapping, urging me to twist or squeeze, praising everything about me from the heat of my lips to the curve of my throat to the tightness of my legs wrapped around Murphy’s waist. I lose track of where their hands are, where my hands are, hell, where we all are. I have no idea how long we twist together, grinding, slipping, and blazing hot. And I finally, finally, get out of my head and absolutely lose myself in them both. _

_ They promised me as long as I want. _

_ I’ll take it. _

_ … _

_ “Ye know damn well we’ll miss ye,” Connor murmurs into my hair, pulling me close again. “Miss ye when I’m at work an’ not holding ye. Miss ye when ye run t’th’store ‘cause we ate all yer food again. Miss ye when ye go t’take a shower an’ don’t take me wit’ ye. Daft woman, we’ll miss t’hell outta ye.” _

_ … _

_ “Ye can’t go around yer entire life believin’ what ye love is gonna be snatched away, darlin’,” he murmurs, running his thumb softly over my cheek. “Tis a terrible way t’see th’world. It’ll eat at ye til dere’s naught left.” _

_ ………. _

I don’t know how long we’ve been walking before I suddenly snap back to the present. A biting breeze lashes a strand of hair across my eyes, and I blink hard, reaching up to clear my vision. For some reason, my other arm is linked through Noah’s, and we’re headed down an unfamiliar street, which isn’t difficult, as I’ve never been to this part of the city. The rain is holding off, as it has been since about ten minutes after we reached the diner, but from the increasingly loud rumblings in the not-so-distance, I get the feeling we’re in for another blow out before the night is over.

“When did we leave the diner?” My head feels fuzzy, like I’ve woken up after a too-short nap; shivers that have nothing to do with the cold run up and down my limbs, and Noah’s arm tightens on my hand as he pulls me a little closer. The pavement glistens with water, slick beneath our hurried feet. The air feels tense and crackly, like it’s charged and waiting for the storm to return. The hair on my arms stands on end, and I realize I’m fighting the urge to bolt into the nearest building.

“Lean on me if ye feel like yer gonna check out again,” he replies, his tone gruff and, for some reason, strained. “After what Smecker told us about yer friend’s ma’s house, didn't want t’waste any time gettin’ ye somewhere outta sight b’fore one o’Yakavetta’s people spots ye. Got a safe room; set it up soon as I got outta th’Hoag, just in case. We’ll get ye settled, den I’ll go get th’boys, an’ you t’ree can talk dis out like ye shoulda done.”

I really want to protest, want to argue that all this fuss is not necessary, that I don’t want to see Connor and Murphy yet, that I’m fine and couldn't possibly be in any danger, but the image of an adorable, picturesque house reduced to ash and rubble flashes across my vision, and I can’t breathe for the phantom smoke clogging my throat, for the lightning I can’t see but I know is lurking in the clouds somewhere nearby, just overhead-

“Keep yer legs a little longer, lass; me carryin’ ye down th’street would be a bit outta place, even in dis neighborhood.”

We hurry down a couple of more blocks before turning onto a smallish street and stopping a few doors down. All I manage to catch as Noah ushers me inside is peeling paint and neon sign with burnt-out letters that may have been a hotel sometime last century.

Once I step inside, he sweeps past me, leading me by a front desk occupied by a snoring attendant. I get a strong whiff of gin and a glimpse of long, tangled hair as we pass. I have to jog just to keep up with the old man, so all I get of the building as we move swiftly through is vague impressions of stained wallpaper, peeling carpets, and a miasma of stale booze, old cigarettes, and decades of rotting garbage.

We turn several corners, climb a flight of stairs, and end up at what I think is the back of the building, although I'm so turned around I can’t be sure. Noah unlocks one of the doors (the room numbers are missing) and ushers me inside, shutting and bolting the door behind him.

After our whirlwind sprint through the corridors, I’m relieved to be standing still long enough to actually take in my surroundings. The room looks to have been furnished in the same decade as the motel where I left Connor and Murphy, but everything seems of slightly higher original quality, so it’s at least held up a little better. A narrow dresser stands against the far wall, its top loaded with what looks like all of Noah’s gear, and there's an ancient television set bolted high up in a corner.

A single lamp sits atop a small table by the windows, its dim light mixing with the orange illumination that filters in through the closed blinds. A hand towel and washcloth hang on a bar beside the ancient, rust-stained porcelain sink, and a pair of ragged, narrow twin beds, both made neatly to the point of military tidiness, completes the room.

“Figured ye’d want t’freshen up an’ maybe get some shut eye,” Noah says suddenly, ending my silent assessment of the room. He slips an odd vest over his shoulders, what looks like a six-weapon holster, and begins loading it up with guns, each of which he checks over carefully before sliding it into place. He catches me staring at his odd choice of clothing and speaks before I have a chance to ask.

“After what Smecker told us, I’m not takin’ any chances. S’why I’m gonna call Connor and Murphy from somewhere outside t'th'hotel an’ tell ‘em where t’go. Won’t be gone but fifteen minutes, but it’ll take ‘em long enough t’get here dat maybe you could rest a bit.”

“But you don’t need to get them!” I burst out suddenly, startling both of us. I grip my elbows hard, my shaking arms crossed over my chest as I stare at Noah, my panic welling rapidly out of nowhere. “I can't, I can’t…they can’t come here, I don't know what to...What do I say when…They want to send me... _ Noah, what do I do?!? _ ”

My last words end in a desperate cry that leaves me just short of hyperventilating.

They can't send me away, they have no right, they promised me as long as I wanted them, I’m not done with them, I’m not, I don't care how stupid they are, I don’t care about saving the world, I don’t care,  _ GODDAMMIT, I DON’T FUCKING CARE- _

Strong fingers clench hard around my biceps, forcing my arms apart as they give me a sharp, forceful shake.

“ _ Stop it, girl! _ ” Noah barks, giving me another shake as my eyes flash hysterically to his face. “We don’t have time fer ye t’break down right now! Ye’ve been strong fer dem boys so far, an’ dey need ye to keep it up. Ye’ll have plenty of time to have yer hysterics when all’s settled an’ done, but til den, yer gonna pull yerself t’gedder. Yer better dan dis, lass, an’ ye can’t lose it now. Now, look at me and tell me ye understand. An’ fuckin’ mean it, ye hear me?”

His stern, decisive tone and one last shake bring the room back into sharp focus, and suddenly I can breathe again. After another couple of moments, the floor stops tilting, and I find my balance, but Noah’s iron grasp remains. My upper arms protest the rough treatment, but I ignore it in favor of finding the courage to look Noah straight in the eyes.

I don’t see anything there but determination and an intensity that would be frightening in any other circumstance. There’s no sign of sympathy or indecision, and that stoic strength snaps the last piece of me back into place.

“You’re right. I understand. I…” I stop, closing my eyes tightly as I swallow the lump that threatens to rise in my treacherous throat. I take in a deep breath through my nose, clench my jaw, and then I finish, “I understand. Hysterics later. Plans now.”

He searches my face, the expression on his face both terrifying and comforting at the same time. Is this what it’s like to have a dad who actually pays attention, one who’s pissed at you but still cares enough to make sure you do the right thing?

I don’t know what to do with that.

“Ye gotta have faith in dem, lass,” he says finally. His grasp softens, turns tender rather than admonishing, and his hands move down to gently cradle mine. “Ye’ve been through shit t’gedder already; not as bad as all dis, but ye gotta have faith in dem an’ yerself. Ye’ve got strength in ye, I can see it, but ye gotta have faith in yer own constitution t’get ye through dis storm. Don’t let it wash ye away. Hope fer t’best an’ plan fer t’worst, aye?”

I guess he finally sees what he’s been looking for because he pulls me to him and places a scratchy kiss on my cheek that reminds me so overwhelmingly of Rocco that my eyes sting involuntarily. Then he releases me and turns back to his work, leaving me to my own devices.

Cleaning up a little sounds like a good option, so after receiving Noah’s assurance that the washcloth is at least clean, I carefully rub at the grime on my face, doing my best to avoid the bandage. Making a valiant attempt at normalcy, I finger-scrub my teeth as best I can and rinse my mouth out. After commandeering a comb, I attempt to tame my hair into something less wretched. I manage decent headway before deciding I’ve put in enough effort and returning the comb to Noah’s duffel. Despite the oddness of my situation (or maybe because of it), I still find a little comfort in something that at least resembles a routine.

By the time I’ve finished, Noah is by the door, shrugging on his coat. He looks up, catching my eye, and offers a small smile.

“Won't be gone more dan, say, twenty minutes. Th’boys’ll take longer, so ye’ve got time fer a quick lie down when I get back, if ye want. Stay awake long enough t’let me back in, though.”

I glance at the array of locks, most of which were obviously added recently, and remark, “I’m surprised you didn’t add brackets and a security bar across the whole thing.”

He turns an appraisingly eye to the door, his lips pursed. “Not a bad idea, if I stay much longer. Good t’move ‘round a bit, though. This’ll do fer now, especially if ye stick a chair under that handle. Give ye plenty o’time to go fer th’winda.”

“You really think I’ll have to?” I ask. I am painfully aware of how little use my brief stint with a self-defense class will be in this situation, and I curse myself inwardly for not being more proactive after December.

“Bein’ overly precautious will almost never hurt ye, lass, an’ never a’tall in a situation like dis. Dere’s just no tellin’ what Yakavetta knows at dis point. He most likely doesn't know about ye, an’ even if he did, he doesn’t know about dis place.”

“But,” he adds, his face creasing back into its habitual scowl, “he also didn’t trust me once he got me out, an’ dere’s no tellin’ if he put a tail on me, nor whether a tail would be able t’keep up wit’ me, so dere’s dat t’think about.”

“Latch all th’locks b’hind me. Don't come t’th’door fer anythin’ til ye hear two knocks, a pause, then two kicks. Don’t look through th’eye hole, no matter what ye hear. If somethin’ happens, if ye hear commotion in th’hall or someone is tryin’ t’get in, go fer th’fire escape. Find th’first payphone ye can, an’ call Smecker.”

“I can do that. I can do  _ this _ ,” I add as a brief flash of worry crosses his face. “I have to. And I swear I’m paying attention, Noah. I’ll be fine until you get back.”

He frowns for a moment before nodding once and hesitantly opening his arms. I stare at him in confusion, and it takes me longer than it should to realize what he’s offering. I step into his embrace, my arms twining around his neck, surprised once again at how soothing his presence actually feels, despite the mutiple guns digging into my torso through his coat.

My new reality is a strange place.

 

“New at dis whole ‘da’ thing,” he mutters as he releases me.

“I’m new at the whole ‘having a dad’ thing,” I return tentatively. “I guess we can figure it out together.”

He looks me over one more time before nodding and opening the door.

“Toilet’s in th’room at th’end of  dis hallway. I’d avoid it an’ figure out howta use th’sink if I were you.” He cracks an actual smile at my horrified look of disgust.

“Spent most o’me time locked in solitary, lass,” he says. “C’n t’ink of quite a few t’ings worse’n pissin’ in a sink.”

And then I’m alone with the quietest hotel room and the loudest thoughts in the entirety of Boston.

As I flick lock after lock into place, a sharp stinging from my legs reminds that I’ve been walking more than I’m used to on top of my lower legs being scraped to hell and back. My cheek and neck ache miserably, and my wrist let’s me know that any heavy lifting in the near future is out of the question. I think a good, long sitting has been earned.

I suppose I could take a minute  to clean up some more, make myself more presentable for Connor and Murphy. I mean, they've seen me at my worst before now, but I don’t know. I’m more used to worrying about my appearance, about making an effort for them, but that would involve a) standing, and b) way more effort than I’m willing to expend right now.

I would also have to go look in the filthy, chipped mirror hanging over the sink and deal with whatever I found looking back at me.

Nope. Not today.

So, instead of dealing with that unpleasantness, I get to think about everything else. I know the plan, at least somewhat. I am too dangerous, too distracting to keep around. And I can’t say I didn’t have any forewarning. There were the dreams; Noah’s voice, somehow finding me months before I would ever even meet him, warning me I had to let them go. And then the advice about hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.

Well, this isn't the worst it could get, but we’re close.

I have a life here, I have a family, but that’s been battered to the point of unrecognizability. I have a job where I just got my dream promotion, but I may not even have it anymore after that way I just called in without actually talking to my supervisor and then never showed up. How many days ago was that? Was it...was it really just...yesterday? This morning?

God, I don’t even know what day it is anymore.

But Smecker wasn’t wrong. If I stay, Yakavetta will find out about me, and then he’ll actually find me. If he doesn’t torture me, the least he will do is kill me straight off just to send Connor and Murphy a message. And even if he doesn’t get to me, I keep involving myself where I shouldn’t, getting into messes I have no business with and getting hurt in the process. I mean, yeah, I’m trying to do the right thing, but that doesn’t mean I’m actually hitting the mark.

And then there’s the whole standing in the way of Connor and Murphy destroying evil to make the world a better place…

Are my boyfriends really a pair of...what, Biblical heroes? Is that what’s happening here?

But where can I go? And why does it have to end with me all by myself?

Again?

That’s the crux of it, I realize. I was alone for most of my life before Connor and Murphy. I had some friends along the way, but no one close, and nothing like family. And then I had two people I could count on for absolutely anything. Three people, really.

I was genuinely happy. For the first time in my life, I could see something like a future, and a family...literally everything I ever wanted. Now my best friend is gone, but I still have some of my family, some of my life left. And I have to knowingly leave it all behind.

I mean, Connor and Murphy would be fine without me under normal circumstances. Well, fine within reason. They drink too much , they smoke way too much, and both of their tempers mean they’re far more likely than your Average Joe to get severe head trauma in a bar fight, but otherwise they’d be just as good on their own as before they met me.

Except now the Italian and Russian mafias have vendettas against them, so their odds of survival have just dropped significantly.

I allow myself a full minute of bitterness, silently railing against the fate that would give me everything I’ve ever wanted only to snatch it away in nearly the worst way possible. I wallow in the unfairness and the god-awfulness for another thirty seconds, cursing the Russians, the Italians, the fucking Irish, the entire goddamned world for all this bullshit.

I give myself one more minute of the deepest self pity I can come muster, and then I shut it down and switch on the ancient television set, settling down to wait for Noah. 

 

I don’t have long to wait, though. He’s back after only ten minutes, and as I wait anxiously for the two kicks to follow his knocks, a tiny part of me wonders exactly what his phone conversation with the boys consisted of.

 

“Don’t understand how ye c’n drink dis stuff. It’s practically syrup,” Noah greets me after I let him in, “but I got ye one o’dem sodas ye like so much.” He holds out a Coke as he shakes rain off his overcoat. “Got ye some Tylenol t’see if it’d help with yer aches, as well.”

Speechless, I accept the soda and the pills, working hard to keep my lips from trembling. He glances at me over his shoulder as he hangs his dripping coat in the tiny closet, one eyebrow quirked questioningly.

God, I am such a mess.

“Lass, are ye-”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, smiling to take the sting out of my interruption. I’m not fine, and we both know it, but honestly, I’m better than I was a few hours ago. Everything hurts just as badly as it did before he left (worse, really), but I’m definitely calmer than I was. My smile widens at his look of disbelief.

“Okay, so I’m lying a little...a lot. But I’ve been worse than this, way worse actually. I can at least think straight now. I’m going to take your advice and lie down. Could you wake me before Connor and Murphy get here?”

“Aye, lass, told ‘em t’take a roundabout way here an’ not get here b’fore midnight, so ye’ve got time.”

I down three tablets with just enough soda to swallow them. I cap my drink and set the bottle down on the tiny desk as Noah drops into the chair by the window. As he reaches over and switches off the little table lamp, I drop onto the bed like a sack of rocks. Despite the extra bits of sleep I’ve managed to salvage, my eyelids immediately drop, and the last thing I’m aware of is the orange glow of Noah lighting up a cigar.

…

 

_ A lighter flicks to life, and with it the darkened room springs to life in sudden, blinding clarity. McGinty’s is empty, save myself and Rocco, who is standing whole and undamaged behind the bar. He lights the cigarette between his lips, tossing his Bic carelessly onto the countertop and taking a deep drag.  _

 

_ The bar is brighter than I’ve ever seen it, the glasses and bottles cleaner than Doc’s arthritic hands could possibly make them, and even the floor gleams without the layers of dirt and grime that have been packed into it by the boots of Southie’s working class. _

 

_ But I’m not here to do a health inspection of the place, am I? _

 

_ Rocco stands across the bar from me, and I drink in his pristine state with a mixture of awe, longing, and just a little bit of fear. I miss him already, and he looks so alive and so put together. But this is my dream, and we all know those never turn out well. _

 

_ “You knew this was coming.” _

_ Rocco looks at me with something like reproach, and I have to wonder for a moment what he’s talking about. His death? Me leaving the twins? He and I sitting in a pristine version of our second home, like it’s no big deal that one of us is dead and the other asleep? _

 

_ This whole fucked up situation in general? _

 

_ “That doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it,” I say, reaching for one of the glasses on the counter in front of me. Rocco pours from the bottle that I swear wasn’t in his hand a moment ago, filling his own glass as well as mine. _

_ “Well, no shit, hun, but ya don’t gotta act so surprised, either. Of all of us, you had the most warning.” _

 

_ He’s not wrong. Roc salutes me with his glass before draining the whole thing in one gulp. I’m slower with my own drink, sliding the tumbler across the counter and back, focusing more than necessary on the swishing, ringing sound the glass makes against the wood. _

 

_ “But...why-” _

_ “Swear to Christ, if you ask me why one more time, you have to pay off my tab at McGinty’s again.” _

_ “...I don’t think I even have enough for that in the envelope the boys gave me.” _

_ “There’s that smile. Listen, hun, ya can’t cry too hard for me. It was a better way out than most of the guys I know. At least I stood for something, made a difference before I went.” His eyes are impossible to read behind his shades, but his smile is genuine and earnest, and despite myself, I want to believe him. _

_ “Is...is that enough for you, though?” _

_ He sighs, turning his glass over and placing it on the counter before swiping mine and consuming the contents before I can react. He flips my tumbler over, stacking it with his own, and leaning over in front of me until his elbows are resting on the countertop. He slides his aviator glasses down to the end of his nose and stares hard at me until I’m forced to look him right in the eyes. _

 

_ “Mom’s got folks to take care of her, and that old house was getting to be too much for her to keep up by herself. She’ll get insurance money for it, and she’s got plenty of photos of me in her wallet. Connor and Murph have their dad, and you made it through in one piece, whether you think you did or not. I got a whole bar full of guys who are gonna drink themselves stupid in my honor. Honestly, a man can’t ask for much more than that. And hun, you’re not as alone right now as you think you are. You’re gonna be fine. You know they won’t be at this hero kick forever. Just wait it out.” _

 

_ “But-” _

 

_ “No buts. Now, shut up and gimme a hug already. I gotta go.” _

 

_ To my surprise, my normally clumsy friend springs easily onto the bar, sliding over and letting himself gracefully to floor. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me off my stool and holding me in the air easily up as my toes dangle a couple of inches off the ground. _

_ “...I miss you.” _

_ “Aw, it’s only been a day. Ya can’t miss me that bad.” _

_ “Screw you, I can miss you as much as I want.” _

_ “You can,” he says, lowering me back to my feet. He stands back, holding my shoulders at arm’s length so he can study my face. “But that don’t mean it’s the right thing to do. Miss me for a bit, then just be sad because you know you’ll never hear any jokes as good as mine again.” _

_ “I love you, Roc. You knew...you know that, right?” I need him to know this. I need to  _ **know** _ that he knows this. His easy grin is more than answer enough. _

_ “Yeah, hun. I always knew it, even before you said it. Love ya, too. Now wake up, already, or you’ll miss your boys.” _

……...

“Lass, Connor an’ Murphy’ll be here in a few minutes.”

It takes every bit of willpower I have not to tell Noah to fuck off as he wakes me, but I just manage.

“How the hell can you be so fucking... _ conscious _ at this time of night?” I growl into the pillow. Maybe a nap wasn’t such a good idea. At least the Tylenol kicked in while I was asleep; the sharpness of my various aches and pains have dulled down to tolerable, almost ignorable levels. The blanket and pillow aren't enough to muffle the sound of Noah’s laugh, and I’m glad he didn’t take my bitching personally. I hear shuffling sounds from outside of my blanket cave, and then cool plastic is thrust under the blanket, unerringly into my hand.

“Drink up, lass; ye don’t want dese idjits t’be more alert dan you, do ye?”

I hate it when I’m pissed at someone and they have to go and be right.

And nice.

So, apparently the problem isn’t that I’m not a morning person; I’m clearly not good at waking up in general.

After downing my room temperature soda and one of those pastries you can only find at gas stations, I am at least fifty percent less zombie-like. According to Noah, I can even form coherent, semi-complete sentences, although I have the feeling he’s being generous. At least my mood has improved.

“Ye want me t’stay?” he asks abruptly. He’s sitting placidly in his chair by the window his fingers linked comfortably across his stomach while I stare blankly at the carpet between my feet.

“Huh?” I respond. Okay, maybe thirty percent less zombie-like.

“When Connor an’ Murph get here, do ye want me t’stay wit’ ye, lass?” He’s so patient; this has to be at least the fourth time he’s had to repeat something to me since I woke up, and he hasn’t snapped yet. Maybe I’m just that entertaining when I first wake up. 

“Sorry,” I yawn, stretching and making an effort to shake the sleep from my brain. “I want you to, I really do, but...I think, at least at first, I need to talk to just them. We have to get this whole mess straightened out, and there’s a lot of...stuff...that needs to be said. But when we get to the part where a plan actually has to be made, then yeah. Could you come back then?”

He purses his lips a moment and nods, his brow wrinkling as he considers. “Can go sit in dat little coffee shop across t’street. Ye c’n send one o'th’boys when yer ready fer me t’come back?”

Before I can answer, there’s a hesitant double tap at the door. Noah and I both tense at the pause, his hand instantly resting on his gun. He’s got the weapon half-drawn when two soft kicks thud at the bottom of the door. I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding as Noah stands and crosses the room. Even after receiving the signal he devised, though, he’s still careful enough to stand to the side of the door as he undoes the locks.

Connor and Murphy slip quickly into the room, dropping a couple of bags by the other bed, but I’m engulfed in a swarm of nerves, and it doesn’t occur to me to wonder what they might have brought with them. They glance around the room, eyes narrowed as they getting their bearings and making sure I’m in sight. Connor’s shoulders visibly relax the moment he spots me, but Murphy tenses,  visibly shaking, and his eyes dart away from mine.

 

Noah glances meaningfully at me as he brushes past the twins. “I’ll be across th’street if ye need me,” he says, his voice brusque as he moves through the open door.

“Aye, Da,” Connor answers, too busy watching me to look at his father. Frowning, Noah smacks the back of his son's head smartly. Connor curses roundly, flinching away from his father, but Murphy doesn’t react at all, staring at the corner like he’s waiting for it to attack.

“Weren’t talkin’ to you, ye daft fool. Latch th’damn locks an’ fix dis mess th’t’ree o’ye turned yerselves into b’fore ye fuck it up any worse.”

I mean, he’s not wrong…

As Connor slides the last lock into place, I feel the combined weight of both his and Murphy’s gaze fall on me once more, but I don’t see it. The second Noah leaves, I turn on my heel and retreat as far from the two of them as I physically could in the small space, hugging my arms as tightly to myself as I can without absorbing them into my body. My wrist twinges in protest, but I couldn’t loosen my grip on myself right now even if I tried. The longer we stand here, the more my courage and resolve drain away, leaving me cold, quivering, and clueless.

I don’t know how to start the conversation, but something tells me that I need to speak first. I never came to a firm conclusion about what I want to happen here. I know the safe, smart thing for me to do is go along with whatever plan they and Smecker have devised. I need to leave Boston; it’s better for me, better for everyone. I just... I should’ve planned more, figured out what I want to tell them and what they should know before I go. I should have figured out what I wanted to ask them, and I should have…

 

I should have…

 

“I should have just let you go the first time you tried to leave me,back in December” I finally say. There’s movement behind me, and I can only imagine what reaction my words have caused. But the movement stops before anyone reaches me, and I refuse to turn around. I don’t want to see what they’re thinking or feeling yet, not if I want to finish.

 

“We didn’t try t-”

 

“Not technically, but you sure as hell didn’t try to stay, either,” I say, cutting Connor dead. “Things got bad, and you two disappeared. I know this situation isn’t the same. Logically, I know my leaving  is necessary. I know getting me out of town is the best course of action for everyone involved. But it feels like you two are kicking me to the curb again because things have gotten too tough to handle. I understand that I’m a hindrance, I swear I really do get it, but...but…”

 

_ Goddammit, I will NOT cry right now. _

 

I force my arms to my sides and straighten my spine, turning slowly and steeling myself against whatever expressions the twins are wearing. Murphy has lowered himself to sit on the end of the bed closest to the door and farthest from me, his back bowed and his face hidden by clenched hands. He couldn’t look more like he did back at the motel if he were mocking himself. Connor stands closer, one of his hands half lifted in entreaty, his mouth open on words I’m not ready to let him say yet.

 

“I’m not going to argue with you, and I won’t fight your plan,” I say before he can speak. He lowers his hand and stays silent as I continue. “But you need to know that in my heart and in my head, I knew this was coming. I fooled myself thinking we could last, that I actually had a chance at keeping you, that I could be happy. And I-”

 

But despite Noah’s encouragement, despite the truth behind my words, despite the stiffness I’ve forced into my backbone, I have a moment where I can’t continue. My voice cracks on the last word, and I stop as my eyes begin to sting. I won’t cry, I won’t cry,  _ goddammit, I won’t _ -

 

“Lass, we don’t wantcha-”

 

“It doesn’t matter what any of us wants, Connor!” I burst out. Every ounce of fury I have for him, for Murphy, for God, for everything in the known universe, chooses that moment to rear its head. I lash out, shoving him hard with my clenched fists, and he stumbles back a step, his eyes wide with shock. I’ve never hit him, never either of them before. Hell, except for the assholes in the alley behind McGinty’s, I’ve never really hit anyone before, not in any way that matters. A burst of pain in my wrist lets me know this isn’t the wisest action I could have taken at the moment, but I’m not planning on stopping anytime soon.

 

“It doesn’t matter what anybody wants! Nothing matters now except that you have your mission and I have no one! Just like I’m supposed to!” Another shove, and Connor staggers backwards again, making no effort to block my blows. I know I’m not actually damaging him, but God, do I want to right now.

 

“Yes, I am so fucking selfish that I can make this whole thing about myself; yes, I am so self-centered that when the possibility of you and Murphy making the world a better place presents itself, all I can think of is how is this going to affect me!”

 

Connor finally holds his hands up, but I knock them both to the side and take another angry swipe at him. He dodges my clumsy jab, but he overcorrects and trips over Murphy, who is staring at the two of us, wide-eyed and shocked silent. Connor lands on his ass at Murphy’s feet, his hands raised in front of his face and his mouth open, gaping up at me.

 

“And yes,” I say, my volume rising in conjunction with my temper, “I am so pissed at the both of you right now, whether or not I have any right to be. And I want to hate both of you, I want to beat both of you bloody! I want to pound sense into both of your stupid, thick, Irish skulls until you understand why this...this...this fucking escapade of yours is so pointless and disastrous, but I know you won’t listen because the pair of you are dead set on getting yourselves killed, just like Rocco!”

 

I stop just short of Connor and Murphy, my rage at its peak, my fingernails cutting into my palms to keep me from trying to take another swing at Connor. In the aftermath of my fit, a muffled quiet settles over the room, broken only by the sounds of the storm outside that has started up once again.

 

I fight to get my temper, my breathing, my traitorous thoughts under control. My jaw aches as I clench it harder, holding back the epithets I long to throw at both of them, insults that I would never be able to to take back, unforgivable words that even in my bitterness I just can’t bring myself to say...although I am so close I can feel their acrid burn in the back of my throat.

 

“I understand,” I say at last, “that this is the end for us. But you need to understand that I am not now, nor will I ever, be okay with why. This mission of yours may make the world a better place. It may save lives. It may even be worth it for everyone else in the end. But for me, it’s the death of everything I love.”

 

The two of them glance at each other, but this time their silent communication fails them, and they have no response to my declaration. I’m not surprised; what could they possibly reply that would fix anything that’s gone wrong? Now that the words are finally out, the rage trickles out of me, slowly at first, and then in a sudden rush that leaves me dizzy with exhaustion. I drop to the end of the vacant bed, not caring if I miss or manage to stay upright. 

 

The three of us stay like that, Murphy and I on our respective beds and Connor on the floor, listening to the wind lash the rain against the windows. I look away from them, numbness creeping through my veins, and I count the seconds between the lightning strikes and the thunder. Unwilling to lose myself to panic again, I let the throbbing in my injured wrist pull my focus from the storm. Instead of seconds between lightning and thunder, I count the heartbeats pounding in my ears, breathing deliberately as my pulse slows and the ache calms with it.

 

After a while, the mattress beside me dips and a hesitant hand reaches out, pausing outstretched over mine. I glance down to see Veritas hovering above my knee, steady but for a faint tremor. I frown, closing my eyes as another crash of thunder vibrates the thin walls of the room. 

 

Then I turn my hand palm-up, holding my fingers wide in acceptance of his silent invitation.


	33. 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would not have happened without Siarh and her magic, one-sentence key that unlocked WEEKS of blockage and suddenly made the entire chapter just work.

“Lass?”

Murphy’s voice is quiet and timid, so unlike him that I have to actually look up to confirm that he has, in fact, spoken. He sits on the other twin bed, looking wilted and worn out, and all I can see of him is the back of his head and his bowed shoulders.

“I’m...I’m sorry.”

I start to answer, but a slight squeeze of Connor’s hand stops me. He gives the tiniest shake of his head and tilts his chin towards Murphy. I take the hint and clam up, waiting for whatever explanation is about to come.

“ ‘M so sorry I hurt ye. I would never...Ye know I wouldn’t ever do dat t’ye on purpose, an’ I shoulda never let meself do it even on accident. Don’t expect ye t’forgive me; don’t even want ye to. God as me witness, I’d kill meself b’fore I did anythin’ like dat to ye again.”

I don’t honestly know how to respond. I don’t want to torture Murphy or leave him hanging, but I can’t think of a thing to say in this moment that doesn’t sound placating or dismissive. Murphy deserves an honest reaction, not something thought up on the spur of the moment. After my outburst, though, I’m deflated. I’m not so much numb as I am emotionally exhausted. I don’t want to think or feel anything for a long, long time, and after that I’d really just like to sleep for a year or two. But Murphy deserves more of me than this defeatist, self-centered resignation, even after my declaration of selfishness, so I will find a way to give him this chance.

Even if it’s the last part of myself I get a chance to give him.

After several tense moments punctuated by diminishing crashes of thunder from outside, I finally make up my mind and stand, tugging gently on Connor’s hand.

“I think Murphy and I need to talk for a bit. Your dad gave me some Tylenol earlier, but it’s starting to wear off, and I may need something for my wrist after...pushing you around. Do you think you could get me some more Tylenol and then bring your dad back in...maybe an hour? I know we still have more to discuss, but I think it would go smoother if Murphy and I can sort ourselves first.”

“I’ll get ye summat while I’m out,” he promises, lifting my hand to press a kiss to my throbbing wrist, “but if ye need somethin’ in th’meantime, we brought yer pain meds ye didn’t use up back in December, just in case.”

I’m so distracted thinking of how I’m going to deal with Murphy that I don’t actually process what Connor says. I follow him to the door, intending to lock it behind him, but he turns suddenly and pulls me close, engulfing me in one of those whole-body hugs that brings me back into the present. He presses a kiss to my cheek and then to my temple before pulling me even closer. My arms go around him automatically, tightening to the point of painfulness.

“Sort it out wit’ him if ye can, love. What ye want does matter, even if we can’t give it to ye right now,” he murmurs against my ear. “Don’t give up on us yet.” Then he’s gone. I set the locks in place and turn back to face my remaining MacManus.

I don’t even realize my teeth are worrying away at my lip until I hit a sore spot. Murphy’s wrists are pressed hard against his eyes, his elbows resting on his knees, and the last vestiges of my anger and bitterness drain away at the sight of him hunched over so pitiful and wretched on the end of the bed. I want nothing more than to erase all the misery, hold him close and tell him that everything is okay, that we’ll all be fine, but I’m done lying to myself and everyone else. I can’t just sweep what he did under the bed and hope we can deal with it later when everything else has calmed down. We don’t have enough time left for my petty cowardice.

“I’m working on forgiving you, Murphy,” I say, trying to find the clearest way to share my thoughts, “but you have to be straight with me. What happened back there? I would never have imagined before today that you could actually hurt me, but now...I know you didn’t intentionally bite me that hard, but it wasn’t just that. You were smothering me, almost forcing me. I was trying to get you to stop, but it was like you couldn’t hear me, like you were completely out of control or even a different person. You terrified me, Murphy, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to completely forget that person is inside you. I want to forgive, to move past this, but you have to tell me what happened to you.”

His face is still hidden, and his fingers have found their way back to his hair. For one ludicrous moment, I’m a little worried about the state his hairline will be in after this whole saga has passed. I can’t tell he’s even heard my words until I see his shoulders trembling. He draws in a ragged breath, and a muffled sob escapes before he can stifle it. The sound tears through my emotional lethargy with terrible accuracy and lodges deep in my chest.

“Oh, Murphy.” I’m by his side before I even make the conscious decision to move. I pull him to me as I recline against the wall, holding him as best as I can on the narrow bed. His face fits snugly against my neck as his arms wind around my waist, and he clings to me as the collar of my shirt grows damp. He begins to speak before he’s calmed down, strung out almost to the point of babbling, and some of his words are slurred or broken. Even so, I still manage to what he’s trying to tell me.

“Came in after talkin’ wit’ Smecker, an’ I was a wreck. Barely held m’shit t’gether while we were plannin’ t’ship ye off God knows where, an’ I just couldn’t stand th’thought of it anymore. Just wanted to hold ye fer...fer th’rest o’me life an’ never have t’ink about lettin’ ye go. Didn’t plan on sleepin’, but I pulled ye to me, an’ I was out b’fore I knew it.”

He stops here, and somehow I know what’s coming. Another dream, another subconscious terror sent to rip what’s left of our hearts into tinier shreds before grinding their remains under heel. As much as I don’t want -  _ don’t need _ \- to hear this, I don’t try to stop him; he has to purge this from his system. I settle a little further against the wall and pull him closer into my side, curling around him as I slide my fingers through his hair.

“You can tell me, Murph. I’m still here.” Despite our closeness, I still have to strain to hear him over the pounding of the rain.

“Had a dream, first one I’ve had since dat night in the jail cell. Was back in Yakavetta’s basement, an’ Connor an’ Roc were tied in th’chairs. Dis time, though, I was standin’ in front of ‘em, an’...an’ you were in th’middle seat, tied up and gagged. Dere weren’t no one else in th’room, and I was th’one wit’ th’gun dis time, holdin’ dat monster of a revolver dat Yakavetta used t’put Roc down. Roc was already dead, lyin’ on th’floor next t’ye, an’ I knew it was me had pulled th’trigger. You and Connor were yellin’ behind yer gags so I couldn’t understand what ye were sayin’, an’...an’ dis voice….dis voice kept sayin’ I had t’pick. I had t’shoot one o’ye. I had t’choose between th’two of ye, an’ I...I couldn’t. I could never fuckin’ make dat choice, I-”

God...I thought my dream was bad, but Murphy’s makes it seem almost light-lighthearted in comparison.

“I couldn’t tell what either of ye were sayin’, but I knew ye were both tellin’ me t’kill ye an’ spare t’other. Me hand started movin’ by itself, raisin’ th’gun an’ tightenin’ me finger on th’trigger. I couldn’t stop it any more dan I could decide which o’ye to kill.” A shudder runs through his body, and I find that I’m holding me breath just as tightly as I’m clutching Murphy. I press my face hard to the top of his head, clenching my jaw to keep myself silent so he can finish.

“Ye both saw th’gun comin’ up, an’ ye looked at each other. I’d seen ye look at each other like dat a t’ousand times before, seen ye look at me like dat another t’ousand, an’ I knew I couldn’t end dat feelin’ between th’ two o’ye, no matter what was tryin’ t’control me. Since me arm was already raised an’ ready, I didn’t even have t’think ‘bout what I needed t’do. I twisted th’gun around just as me finger was squeezin’ th’trigger, an’ took meself outta th’equation. Last t’ing I heard b’fore the gun goin’ off was you and Connor screamin’, an’ den I woke up next t’ye on th’bed, nearly stranglin’ meself wit’ th’sheets.”

Murphy’s quiet for so long I think he must be finished, but then he speaks again, louder this time. Harsh, acrid contrition flavors his words, replacing his distress. He grows tense in my arms, but I don’t dare let go of him now.

“Ye were so still, so quiet, I couldn’t convince meself ye were alive, even though I could hear ye breathin’ an feel yer heartbeat. Was like back in December, in dat alley when ye weren’t breathin’ an’ I couldn’t get to ye fer dat woman draggin’ an’ screamin’ at me. I needed to hear yer voice, feel ye movin’ against me; needed to be as close as I could to ye an’ know nothin’ in th’dream had been real. Leastways, everythin’ ‘cept Roc bein’ dead. I wasn’t listenin’ to ye, yer right; don’t even know if I could really hear ye a’tall. I was...I was in an’ out of me head, goin’ back an’ forth between you right dere wit’ me an’ you in th’chair tryin’ t’reason screamin’ at me an’ you beatin’ and bloody in th’alley. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, I just...I don’t remember everythin’ I did, I swear, but it don’t excuse anythin’. Den ye smashed yer head back, and dat jolt o’pain knocked some fuckin’ sense back inta me. Couldn’t figure why I was tastin’ blood, though, as ye hadn’t hit me mouth an’ me nose wasn’t bleedin’, an’ den I saw yer neck, an’...an’...I’m so sorry, Grace, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

I expect him to cry harder, to break down sobbing, to lose at least a little control again. I mean, it’s what I would do in his place. He’s so tense in my arms he’s shaking. All I can think to do is hold him, stroking his hair as my heart aches for him.

“I love you,” I whisper. I don’t offer any platitudes or false promises of everything working out fine. We both know better. “I love you. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. I’m here for as long as we’ve got left, Murphy, and I love you.”

The tears I expect from him never come; what he gives me instead is more confessions. A year ago, a month...hell, even an hour ago, these confessions would have torn me apart, made me feel like the most worthless person alive, confirmed every self-doubt that I have about my inability to be loved. Instead, everything Murphy says just serves to remind me how little time we have left together, and I cling to him as if it’s our last night together as he pours out all everything that’s been eating away at him for months now.

“I was more pissed at ye back in December dan I ever really let ye know, but part of dat was on me, as well. Shoulda been straight wit’ ye from th’start, let ye know just how much ye scared me an’ cut me t’th’quick. An’ den on Sunday night, when I found out ye went an’ did th’same thing again, goin’ t’Yakavetta’s house an’ throwin’ yerself inta danger wit’out thinkin’ o’ what we’d do if we lost ye. I...I wanted t’shake ye, to scream at ye ‘til ye swore ye’d never leave yer apartment again. I wanted ye t’tell me why ye seem so hell-bent on gettin’ yerself killed. It’s like yer parents fucked ye up so much ye got no sense of self-worth or self-preservation at all, sometimes.”

His face is turned into my hair now, his arms clutched around my back like bands of steel, and his voice is a ground-glass whisper that grates my heart raw. It’s not what he’s saying that hurts so much, though; I understand almost exactly how he feels. What hurts the most is that he’s more right than I have time to admit.

“Told ye t’never do dat t’me again, Grace, said I couldn’t take it. An’ den...even knowin’ afterwards dat it was all a dream, seein’ th’gun in me hand, pointin’ it at ye fer even just a second...I can’t stand th’thought o’livin’ wit’out ye, but th’thought o’ye dead ‘cause o’me, like...like Roc…”

“Oh, God, Murphy, no.” I feel the familiar burn behind my eyes, and I have to clear my throat before I can continue. “You didn’t kill Rocco, you didn’t. None of us wanted him to die, and you know that. You didn’t pull the trigger, and you didn’t kill him.”

“But I coulda stopped him, Grace. I believed ye, I knew what was gonna happen, an’ I still let him go. Knowin’ he was gonna...an’ lettin’ him go anyway. I as good as killed him-”

I tilt his stricken face to mine and silence him with a finger to his lips. “I’ve been through that thought cycle, too, Murphy. All of us knew, Rocco included. He could have stopped himself, as well. We all could have stopped him, but, in the end, Rocco was the only one in charge of where he went and what he did. He decided to go anyway, make his life mean something. You can’t take the blame for his death onto yourself. You know exactly who is responsible, and we both know what you and Connor are going to do about it.”

Murphy’s eyes bore desperately into mine, red-rimmed and haunted but somehow dry. He reaches a trembling hand up to trace a feather light touch over the bandages on my cheek and neck, and I lean down to tap the tip of my nose to the end of his.

“I love you. I will always love you, and I am going to miss you more than I could ever try to explain. Don’t let me leave thinking I have to worry about you blaming yourself for Rocco’s death. I’m already going to worry about you and Connor and even your dad with your vigilante crusade, but...tell me you understand. Even if you don’t accept it yet, tell me you understand Rocco’s death wasn’t your fault and that you’ll try to believe.”

“Aye,” he breathes softly, laying his forehead on the crook of my neck. I think that surely he’s done now, that he’s managed to draw the last of the poison out of his wounds, but he has one last revelation to lay before me. His words settle around us like a blanket that’s just a little too hot on a cool night, uncomfortable but still needed.

“Grace, ye’ve driven me t’distraction from th’first moment I laid eyes on ye, an’ if I hafta worry ‘bout ye, worry ‘bout hurtin’ ye, I won’t be able to...t’do what I hafta. If ye stay, it’s gonna be th’death of one o’th’three of us, an’ I can’t...God, I don’t want ye t’go, but ye have to.”

Yeah.

I know that now.

The tension drains out of him in a rush, just as I deflated after my earlier choleric fit of temper, and suddenly I’m holding a limp, exhausted boy who is way past his bedtime. I press a kiss to the crown of his head, feeling his arms snug around me once more. The rain quiets down outside, dropping from a constant roar to a whispering rush that chills me even as it soothes some of my frazzled nerves.

“Rest, Murphy,” I tell him as his blinking becomes heavy and slow. “I’ve got you. I’ll wake you when Connor gets back. I’m here.” But he’s reluctant, even with how utterly wrecked he is, fearful of what other visions might come to him in his sleep. His bleary eyes never leave me, and we lie together, studying the contours and shadows of each other’s faces and committing every detail to memory.

“We could just run away,” he says. I’m half-mesmerized, fixing the location of the beauty mark over his lip firmly in mind, and I have to shake my head to clear my hazy thoughts before I can fully process his offer.

“I...don’t think your brother would be too pleased with us,” I say. I watch him carefully for a moment, but he face remains grave without a single spark of teasing. I realize that I’m starting to get a cramp in my shoulder from our awkward position, and I use the interruption as an excuse to stretch and relieve my physical discomfort.

I pull back a little, disentangling myself from our embrace. He clings to my hands, and I soften my departure by kissing his bruised knuckles and considering his words before responding. “And that would be another thing you’d never forgive yourself for. Walking away before you’ve finished what you’ve started. I know you, Murph. Leaving Yakavetta alive was never an option, not once you and Connor set out on this path. It would be one more thing you’d blame yourself for, and I won’t let you do it.”

I squeeze his hands as tightly as my aching wrist will allow then release him and turn to push off the bed. As I stand, all of my pains come rushing back to remind me I never took any more medicine. My legs feel raw, my back aches, my face and neck burn, and the throbbing in my wrist has reached new levels of hurt. I sigh, rubbing my gritty eyes and moving towards the sink, intending to wash the bits of my face I can get wet, as I hear Murphy slide off the bed behind me.

“Ye don’t want to escape t’some tropical island an’ drink margaritas th’ rest o’yer days wit’ me?” he says, his voice closer than I expect. I turn the handle of the sink, running cold water over my unbandaged hand, and glance up in the cloudy mirror to see him standing behind me, a comically exaggerated pout on his face. I can’t help but smile as I reach for the washcloth, but Murphy gets to it before I can.

“Lemme help ye. Least I c’n do.”

Murphy tends to me as gently as he can, and I try to enjoy a few moments of near-normalcy with him as I fend off his half-joking advances with caustic admonitions that leave us both feeling a little more broken-hearted by the end.

“Gonna...gonna miss dis, just bein’ able t’touch ye an’ talk t’ye whenever I want,” he says, examining the washrag clenched in his closed fist. I bite my lip again, holding in the laundry list of things I’ll similarly miss about him and Connor. I look away, but the movement brings with it a bitter ache along my neck, and I can’t hide my grimace from Murphy’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Ye never did take any o’dat medicine Connor told ye about. Wanna get some of it now?”

“What are you-” And then Connor’s parting words come back to me, and I remember the baggage the boys brought with them when they got here.

Murphy drops the damp cloth in the sink and strides across the small room. He picks up the bags he and Connor set down when they first got here, setting them down on the bed, and looks at me hesitantly. “Da told us to stop by yer place an’ get th’things ye’d need. Said ye weren’t t’go back der again. Got all yer clothes an’ jewelry, yer tapes, an’ yer bathroom stuff. I shoved a few o’the things from yer closet inta th’bag, an’ a thing or two of Rocco’s’, but Connor said we didn’t have time to get anythin’ else, an’ we didn’t want ye t’have too many bags, so...Yeah. Dis is what we got.”

My life condensed into a purse, a sports bag, a backpack, and a suitcase. I don’t know why I’m surprised.

“Thanks,” I say, and for some reason I’m too rattled to think of a better reply. “It would be nice to brush my hair properly, I guess, but I don’t know about those pain pills, though. They knocked me out pretty hardcore; what if I need to be alert for something?”

Murphy thinks this over for a moment before logic wins out, and he nods once, almost to himself. He unzips the duffel, rifling around for a moment before extracting my hairbrush. A manila envelope lying atop the bag’s contents catches my eye as he offers me the brush, and I move closer for a better look. My name is scrawled in Connor’s handwriting across the front, and I look to Murphy for an explanation.

“A letter an’ some things we decided ye needed, but ye can’t open it yet,” he says. I open my mouth, confused, but he just shakes his head. “Wouldn’t mean as much now. Open it later, when ye get wherever ‘tis Smecker thinks ye need to go.”

Instead of offering the brush again, Murphy gently leads me to a chair, and in one of the oddest and most intimate scenes of our relationship, proceeds to brush out my hair and allow me to talk him through braiding it, a task at which he proves himself to be unexpectedly adept. He ignores my protests, informing me that with my “gimp wrist,” it would take me until next St. Patty’s day to get it done, anyway.

“But if ye breathe a word o’dis t’me brudder,” he warns, his pale face suddenly flushed, “I’ll make ye regret it t’th’end o’yer days, love.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Murphy.”

Two knocks on the door startle us out of our curiously domestic episode, and I’m on my feet without a moment’s hesitation. Murphy slips silently over to his coat and has his gun half-drawn when the follow up double kick raps sharply against the bottom of the door.

“ ‘S us, Murph, let us in,” Connor calls softly. Murphy uncocks his gun but doesn’t holster it as he slides the locks open. Connor and Noah step into the room, and, as before, Connor’s shoulders immediately relax when his eyes meet mine. He holds out a bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol as an offering, but I bypass the pills and go straight for a hug.

“Got us th’room next door,” Connor says, once I’ve released him. “Not an upgrade, per se, but it’s got a big enough bed fer you, me, an Murph. We’ll move yer bags over and get a few hours sleep b’fore we call Smecker, aye?”

I glance at Noah, who quirks an eyebrow at Connor’s reasoning behind the room change but doesn’t comment. “You’ll be okay in here by yourself?” It takes a full thirty seconds of everyone in the room staring at me before I realize the stupidity of my question. I sigh and toss my hairbrush at Murphy’s smirking face.

“Shut up, all of you. I’ve had a shitty week, and I need sleep.”

“Your wish, my command,” Connor says, not quite repressing a grin. He snags my things from the bed, leaving Murphy to collect their own duffel. I grab my purse and the one bag I brought from the other motel and glance at Noah, offering a tired smile and goodnight. He leans in for a brief kiss on the cheek, saying, “Tap on th’wall if somethin’s amiss. I’ll see ye later on.”

I step into the other room as Connor and Murphy drop our combined baggage on the floor, turning to latch the door behind us. The room is identical to the last one, but there’s a queen sized bed where the twin beds sat in the other room, and, despite the aged covers, it looks like absolute heaven.

“Can we push it into the corner?” I ask suddenly. Without a word, Murphy and Connor set to shoving the bed until it’s flush against two walls. Murphy helps me undress while Connor gets a glass of water and shakes out some pills for me and himself. He tilts the open bottle towards Murphy, shaking it questioningly, and for once Murphy doesn’t turn down the offer. I know we could all use something a lot stronger than over-the-counter strength acetaminophen,  but there’s no telling what the next couple of days will bring, and none of us can afford to be mentally fogged down by the narcotic pain meds the boys brought me.

We take our time arranging ourselves before settling down. Connor and Murphy have to assure me multiple times that their bandages don’t need changing, and I assure them in return that they are not hurting me or aggravating any of my injuries, which is mostly true. I finally end up with my head resting on Murphy’s chest with Connor squished between me and the wall. The rain has dried up to the point of inaudibility now, and the city lies quietly outside the hotel, resting in the odd period of quiet that can sometimes be found in the darkest hour just before dawn. I concentrate on Murphy’s heartbeat, slow and steady under my ear. Connor’s breath tickles the hair on the back of my neck while Murphy’s fingers absently smooth across my eyebrow.

“Is this it for us?”

For a moment, my question rings discordant and out of place in the muffled silence of the room. I wonder if the boys have fallen asleep, but Connor’s fingers reflexively clench against my hip.

“Dunno, lass,” he finally answers; his words are clipped and precise, every inch of them measured before he speaks. I get the feeling he’s less than one hundred percent comfortable with the situation. “Smecker doesn’t want us t’know where he’ll send ye, says tisn’t safe fer us to know. Don’t know when he’ll send ye, either, nor how. It’ll be sooner rather dan later. Probably take him a day t’organize everythin’ once we’ve told him yer on board. So...not quite goodbye, yet. Afraid yer stuck wit’ us fer another night or so.”

I nod, not trusting my voice again. I suppose it wouldn’t be safe for the boys to know where I am, not if Smecker wants them to continue on this crusade. One moment of weakness, of missing me too much, and Murphy would be on his way to me in a heartbeat, with Connor not far behind. And then we’d be right back here again. So we’re stuck with this shitty non-plan, all of our fates in the hands of a man I just can’t find it in myself to trust.

But for right now, at least, we’re still here.

“Don’t want ye t’go.” The words are so quiet, and they seem to come from everywhere at once, and I’m never sure afterwards which of my boys said them.

“I know. I love you, too.”


	34. 34

“I really want to refuse, but I also don’t want to smell like sweat and industrial air freshener anymore, either.”  
  
“Well, lass,” Connor says, struggling to pull his shirt off without elbowing either me or Murphy in the face, “Don’t see as ye’ve got many other choices, if dat’s th’case. Ye c’n only wipe down from th’sink so many times.”  
  
“Yeah, but...but...Connor, the bottom of the bathtub is orange. _Orange_.” I emphasize, as he doesn’t seem to be grasping the severity of the situation. “I got athlete’s foot at camp one summer from not wearing flip flops in the shower, and I know for a fact that thing was sprayed down with bleach once a day. I don’t know if this thing has been cleaned in the last decade, much less disinfected.”  
  
Murphy grins at me from where he’s perched on the tiny windowsill. He’s shirtless, his jeans hanging open as he unlaces his boots and drops them to the floor of the minuscule, communal bathroom at the end of the hallway that Noah mentioned last night. Noah was entirely right; we should not be in here and should have done everything we could to avoid it, but...  
  
Dammit, I just want to feel clean. And, for some reason, Connor and Murphy both felt the need to join me when I announced my intentions. They both hesitated in the doorway before stepping in, and I didn’t realize why until they were able to fold themselves into awkward enough positions to allow me entrance. You’d think one or two of us would have had the initiative to return to the room and wait for the others to finish showering, but honestly, I think if I left the bathroom, I’d lose the nerve to actually use the shower in all its fungal glory.  
  
“Ye can’t tell me yer more afraid o’dis t’ing dan ye were th’shower in our place,” Murphy asks, affecting incredulity. “Dis here is a proper tub’n’shower an’ all. Even has a curtain!”  
  
I shoot him a nasty glare, resigning myself to the inevitable. I manage to strip down in the non-existent space and reach out a tentative hand to turn the water on. The knob is slick and vaguely greasy, and my stomach turns a little.  
  
“I knew what exactly went on with your shower,” I say, cringing.  
  
“I’m sure tis much th’same here,” Connor assures me robustly, then glances at the tub again and seems to change his mind. “Well, okay, so people come in here wit’ th’same intentions, leastways.”  
  
“People wanted to OD in your shower, too?” I ask, shuddering as the green tint of the bathtub floor darkens slightly with the introduction of a water source. “Somebody give up your washcloth for the good of the many. I can stand on moss, but I’m not showering on mold.”  
  
“And all of us are wiping down our feet with rubbing alcohol when we get back to the room,” I add, crouching down next to the tub to spread out the proffered washcloth..  
  
Despite the boys’ expectations, there really is only enough room under the water spray for one of us at a time. They gallantly offer for me to shower first, so I wash off as quickly as my thoroughness will allow. Connor steps under the spray next, and Murphy watches from his perch on the windowsill as I futilely attempt to detangle my hair without a comb in front of the mirror. Knowing I’m going to have to look eventually, I shove down my insecurities and raise my eyes up to my reflection.  
  
The circles under my eyes are bruise-like in their intensity, which goes nicely with the cut that I cleaned carefully in the shower. I examine the wound with a critical eye; it doesn’t hurt any more than it did yesterday, and the pinkness isn’t spreading, so I’ve managed to avoid infection so far. The rest of my cuts and scrapes are much the same, and I take the opportunity to let them breathe for a few minutes.   
  
The bite mark on my neck, while also not appearing infected, is another level of ugly altogether. The teeth marks are shallow but distinctive, and yellow and brown bruising radiates out from them, stark testimony to the force behind Murphy’s bite.  
  
Connor’s face appears next to mine in the mirror as I’m examining the bite. His gaze flicks to my neck, then the reflection of the shower where Murphy is currently washing his hair. They must have switched places when I was checking myself over. He meets my eyes in the mirror, and I shake my head slightly, warning him off any sort of commentary. His lips thin, his jaw tightening for a moment, and he sucks in a deep breath through his nose like he’s getting ready to argue. He opens his mouth, then seems to change tack mid-thought.  
  
“How’s yer wrist?”  
  
I let him see my gratefulness in the mirror as I answer, “Much better than yesterday. I’d really rather not go to the hospital, if at all possible. If everything is as bad as you and Smecker think, then we should probably avoid hospitals, anyway. Wouldn’t they have people watching places like that for you guys, figuring you might go there, what with how hurt you are?”  
  
“Ain’t dat hurt,” Murphy says, sliding the curtain open.

 

“No, I quip, as I turn to face him, “you’ve only been shot, and-”

 

His face is slightly less puffy than last night, but the bruises spreading over his pale skin are even uglier than my neck wound. I can’t quite hide my grimace, so I turn away again before I can really hurt Murphy’s feelings.  
  
“I’m going to head back and start cleaning and covering injuries,” I declare in a voice that’s only a little too loud. “Open invitation to anyone who needs help. And feet disinfecting for all.”  
...  
  
Noah is waiting inside the room, and I’m glad I thought to take clean clothes with me instead of braving the otherwise deserted hallway back in a towel. Before I can begin to panic at what his unexpected presence might mean, he holds out a pacifying hand as he rises from the bed.

 

“Just gonna run some errands and set up a meeting with Smecker. Pick up some fresh food while I’m out. Th’three of ye should spend some time t’gether an’ maybe try t’get a little more sleep.”

 

His expression is stern and final, like he expects me to argue with him, but I have no desire to communicate with Smecker at all right now (or ever, really). I’ve never really enjoyed running errands anyway, so I’m happy to have even this much more time with my boys before-

 

“Thank you,” I say abruptly, cutting off my line of thought before it can progress any further. I smile to soften my words, hoping I didn’t come off as snappy. “I really appreciate you thinking of us. And thank you for telling the boys to get my stuff. I don’t know if that break in at my old apartment was Yakavetta’s people or just a weird coincidence, but I think you and the guys are right about none of us going back there again.”

 

“Gotta confess somethin’, lass,” Noah says, his face a stoic mask. “T’were Yakavetta’s people what broke inta yer old apartment. Once I connected you all wit’ Rocco, I tracked you an’ th’boys same as I did yer friend. Weren’t hard. Found out ye’d moved recently, and I needed t’do somethin’ dat would get th’ boys away from ye an’ also throw Yakavetta in a different direction. He was ready t’send guns after everyone Rocco ever knew. Too many women involved fer me t’be okay wit’ lettin’ dem animals loose on Roc’s friends an’ family, so I figured havin’ his thugs bust up some strangers apartment while dey were out fer th’day would keep ‘em away from th’ones who mattered an’ let th’mob boys blow off a little steam.”

 

“I...have no idea what to do with that information,” I finally say, startled into honesty. A million questions run through my head, but none of them seem important or complete enough without having to ask a hundred more afterwards. I finally settle for, “I’m definitely not going back to my apartment, I guess. They might have found the right one by now. You don’t think they’ll go back and hurt anyone else, do you?”

 

I have a horrible thought of the people currently living in my old place, bloodied and broken like Rocco, but Noah shakes his head. “Not terribly likely. Dey’ll have snooped around enough t’know ye ain’t dere anymore, an’ since I didn’t tell ‘em much about ye, dey don’t know ye have direct connection t’Rocco. Not enough info for dem t’risk goin’ after ye wit’out knowin’ exactly where an’ who ye are an’ what ye might know, not wit’ th’cops crawlin’ all over Yakavetta’s operations right now. I never told ‘em ye were wit’ Rocco’s two friends, ye see. Didn’t seem as important at th’time, an’ I’m glad now dat I didn’t. Ye still shouldn’t go back, though, in case they show up.”

 

The worried tone in his voice is enough to make me agree immediately instead of arguing; I mean, this is a man who slits throats and guns down mobsters while smoking a cigar, and he’s worried about what will happen if I go home? That's enough reason for me.

 

Noah opens the door and steps out into the hall just as Connor and Murphy return from the bathroom, and he stalks off down the corridor, leaving me to explain our brief, bizarre little round of exposition. Both of them stare at me blankly for a long moment before Murphy finally speaks.

 

“Told ye so.”

 

“What?! You fucking well did not!” He laughs, ducking away from me as I swat at him, and he gently catches my wrist before I can any more harm to myself. He is still far too amused at my outrage for my tastes, but I allow myself to be led over to the bed, and I more or less peacefully suffer through having my wounds treated.

 

I make good on my threat of disinfecting everyone’s feet, and then the three of us are left sitting on the bed, silent and smelling of antiseptic, and I don’t know what to do with myself.

 

“Ye alright dere?” Connor asks tentatively. My resolve slips, and I shake my head, frowning as my throat begins to tighten. Is this it? Is this the last day I'll ever get to be with them, stuck in this dilapidated hotel, battered and mourning for my lost friend? Is this what I’m going to remember years from now when I look back on our life together, this-

 

“Gonna go shave,” Connor announces suddenly. When did he even stand up? He brushes a kiss across my cheek, catching my eyes as he crouches in front of me. He touches a gentle finger to my chin, making sure he has my full attention.

 

“Gonna give ye a bit o’time wit’ Murphy. Expect ye t’be ready an’ waitin’ fer me when I get back, aye? Got a lot t’talk about, an’ we ain’t got much time, so t’ink over all th’different ways ye want t’tell me ye love me, lass, an’ all th’things yer gonna miss. I expect a complete listing of all me best qualities, an’ none of dis ‘never gonna see each other again,’ bullshit. We ain’t got time fer dat kinda talk. I love ye.”

 

He and Murphy stare hard at each other for a minute, then Connor’s finger comes up warningly, stabbing in Murphy’s direction. He glares at his brother for a moment, waiting, until Murphy finally nods his assent to whatever Connor is silently telling him. Then he’s out the door, and I’m left staring at Murphy in confusion.

 

“Didn’t want ye t’see ‘im cry,” Murphy deadpans.

 

“Or he was telling you not to make me cry,” I offer, my voice dripping with sweet innocence. Murphy eyes me sharply before deflating a little and nodding.

 

“Aye, he was warnin’ me, fair enough. Did a bang up job takin’ care o’ye already.” He runs a soft touch around the outer edges of my freshly reapplied bandages, his lips thinning unhappily. “T’night, if ye cry, it ain’t gonna be my fault.”

 

“Oh, hell, Murph,” I say. I shove him back on the bed, sliding across his lap until I’m straddling him. I plant my hands my hands on his lower belly, startling a low “oof” from him. “We all know I’m gonna cry tonight. Probably why your dad left in the first place. Who wants to hang around that mess besides you and your masochistic brother?”

 

My legs sting like hell in this position, but I’ve decided not to care for at least a little while. Murphy’s fingers are restless, running up the sides of my thighs as they trace the seams of my jeans before counting their way up each of my ribs. He can’t meet my eyes, though, and after several minutes of uncomfortable silence, I finally reach down and tilt his unwilling chin up.

 

“Speak.”

 

His eyes are dark and uncertain, and his fingers continue their exploration up the sides of my arms, but he still doesn’t say a word.

 

“Murphy, we’re not going to get too many more chances to say what we want to say. You’re starting to worry me a little. Talk to me? Please?”

 

His voice is thick and low, and he has to clear his throat a couple of times before I can hear him.

 

“T’ing is, lass...I can’t think of a ‘ting t’say t’ye dat I haven’t already. Don’t have t’convince ye of nothin’. Ye know I love ye, ye know I’m gonna miss t’hell outta ye, ye know...Grace, ye _know_. Don’t see as how I c’n add anythin’ new t’dat. Ain’t dat I don’t wanna talk, it’s only dat I can’t t’ink of any new ways t’say it dat could live up t’just bein’ wit’ ye right now an’ feelin’ ye, knowin’ yer alive an’ as safe as we’ll be able t’make ye.”

 

After that speech, I find that I, too, can’t think of a single new thing to say.

 

So, in the same vein of logic that has dominated this phase of our lives, since we don’t have all the time in the world anymore, we pretend that we do. We take the time to revisit all our favorite spots on each other’s bodies, enjoying all the little ways each of us can get the other to react.

 

Murphy spends an inordinate amount of time running his fingers through my hair, continually brushing over the spot where my skull meets my neck that makes me shiver. I, in turn, kiss every inch of his face as he suppresses a grin, and I silently bless him for his patience. He suffers through this treatment a full four minutes longer than I would have thought possible before declaring my time up and that it is now his “turn.”

 

And so it goes for a long, peaceful, uninterrupted time. We trade back and forth, each of us getting a few minutes to do whatever we want to or with the other or to do for silly things we would never think of before now. Murphy unselfconsciously asks me to “do dat nail scratchy t’ing on me back dat makes me jump so,” while I request that he braid my hair again, and so on the list goes.

 

Gentle touches gradually transform to desperate clutches ,and softly spoken requests become breathy sighs and eventually choked, gasping pleas. Afterwards, we lie together, most of the sheets and blankets tossed from the bed, sweat drying stickily between us, Murphy’s heartbeat slightly irregular under my ear as it returns to a less excited rhythm.

 

“If I remember nothing else about you for the rest of my life, I can be happy if I can just remember this,” I whisper into his shoulder. His arms tighten. He doesn’t reply aloud, but like he said earlier, he doesn’t need to. He’s already said everything he can say. He slips from the bed, handing me my clothes before searching out his own.

 

“If I stay any longer, yer bound t’fall asleep, an’ den I’d never hear t’end of it from Con. Gonna go get him now, lest ye need a minute? Yer not hurtin’, are ye?”

 

I wave off his concern as I pull my top over my head. “Honestly, I feel better than I have in a while. And you’re right, you’re way too easy to fall asleep next to. Bad habit I’ve picked up over the last couple of years.”

 

He kisses the tip of my nose, then slips out the door. I’m surprised at how calm he is, how calm we both are. I think that’s the most peaceful time I’ve ever spent with Murphy, but I’m too content to question it. At this point, I’ll definitely take what I can get.

 

Today is not done with the surprises, though. Connor, who I’ve only ever seen lose control a handful of times, if that, is not in the room for five minutes before his weak front of bravado crumbles to ash.

 

“I...I can’t. I just fuckin’ can’t. I can’t say it, can’t think, I can’t fuckin’ do dis, lass.”

 

I reach out to him, hesitant to cradle him the way I do Murphy sometimes. I touch his shoulder, and he turns bloodshot eyes to me.

 

“It took me two months t’even talk to ye th’first time. Took me two years t’build a life wit’ ye. An’ now I gotta unmake all dat in two hours? How t’fuck am I s’posed t’fit t’rest of our lives inta two hours?”

 

“Come here.”

 

And for the first time, he comes to me quietly, almost shyly, his ego and confidence left behind, and clings to me like a lost little boy. I curl into the corner of the bed, my back pressed against the wall, tucking his head into my neck and stroking his hair while he digs fingerprints into my sides.

 

“You can’t, Connor, but I understand. You can’t fit it all in, so don’t kill yourself trying to say everything. You...you’ve said everything, I think. I don’t think you could find any new ways to say it today that matter more than us just being together.” I know I’m stealing shamelessly from Murphy (and not doing the best job at it, either) but I have a feeling that this will be one of those rare conversations the boys never share.

 

“I was s’posed t’come in here an’ sweep ye off yer feet, make ye remember why ye fell fer me in th’first place. Wasn’t s’posed t’make ye rock me like a nursin’ babe.”

 

There’s a hint of anger in his tone, but I ignore it in favor of running my fingers over his hairline just behind his ears, tracing the tendons of his neck as

I search out the sensitive places I know are there. He shudders against me as I scratch gently up the back of his neck, and then he tilts up to kiss my chin.

 

“Wanna tell a million ways. Say it in every language I know an’ all th’ones I don’t. Need ye t’ know it, t’believe it, an’ t’damn sure never ferget it. Dat way…”

 

He trails off, but I am slowly learning patience during this ordeal we’ve lived through these last couple of weeks, so I wait.

 

“Wanna tell ye all dose ways just in case I never get t’tell ye again. Dat way ye won’t have missed anythin’.”

 

“Connor, you and Murphy are everything I wanted in my life. You gave me a family, and I never thought I would have one. I never thought I deserved one. You guys...God, there were so many times I wanted to absolutely strangle both of you, and even that made me happy, way deep down where I would never consciously admit it.”

 

I still my hand, resting it against Connor’s face as he watches me with solemn eyes. “I love you. I can’t pretty it up the way you and Murphy can, so...I love you. I can’t say it any better.”

 

“Maybe we don’t hafta say it any other ways,” he finally offers, his eyebrows drawn together. His forehead wrinkles, and I know he’s starting to doubt himself. I only recognize the signs because both the expression and the emotion on his face are so foreign that I can’t see them as anything else. I draw gentle fingers over his face, smoothing the skin until he relaxes under my touch.

 

“Let’s just not say anything else at all for a while, then,” I offer as he closes his eyes. I press my lips to the middle of his forehead and his hands creep up my back, drawing me closer until our bodies are flush. His hands curl over my shoulders, and he presses an almost feverish forehead hard against my chin. The breath he draws in is raw and shaking, and I close my eyes tightly against the sound.

 

His right hand leaves my shoulder to slip behind my knee, pulling it up and hooking it over his hip. He moves against me, rutting his hips firmly against mine, the sensation both muted and maddening through our layers of denim, but he keeps up the motion, moving his hand around to cup my ass and pull us more insistently together.

 

I tilt my head to the side, shuffling my body down until my lips can reach the pulse point under the corner of his jaw. My nose brushes the edge of his ear as my face slides against the silky, freshly shaven skin of his jaw. His fingers dig into me anywhere they can reach, squeezing to the point of pain before releasing and finding a new place to torture. I anchor my fingers in his hair, tightening my grip so

I can angle his head just as I like.

 

My heart pounds a deafening baseline in my ears as I move against him, meeting each thrust, the ache between my legs deepening with every passing second. I nip hard at his earlobe, and his sudden exhalation of shock against my neck is scalding hot. I feel a sharp pulse between us through both of our jeans, and Connor moans, half-miserable, half-delirious.

 

His fingers fumble between us as I continue my assault on his neck, and I don’t make his attempt to remove our clothing easy, but, in the end, he gets us both stripped enough. My shirt and bra are lifted conveniently (if not comfortably) out of the way, and though he gets my jeans off, he doesn’t bother removing anything else, simply shoving the remaining clothing down or aside as necessary.

 

“Lass, do ye...do ye think ye could...keep up dat t’ing yer doing with yer mouth if I go slow enough?”

 

“Say please.”

 

“Aye, aye, lass, please. Please keep... _please…_ ”

 

We move together deliberately, each mindful of th other’s injuries. Connor guides the rocking of my hips, his fingers burning against my thigh as I continue to drink in the taste of his skin. Despite his request, it’s not long before he asks me to kiss him, waiting for me to initiate before he responds, his tongue moving only in reaction to mine, more submissive than he’s ever been with me, than he’s probably ever been in his entire life. Even his guiding hand serves simply to keep me moving when I become distracted elsewhere. He shudders against me, his hips stilling as his back stiffens, and I lay my forehead against his.

 

“Finish me, Connor,” I order, my lips right against his ear, his panting breath dampening my shoulder. “Finish what you started.” Then his hand is between us, his fingers working me into oblivion. Carried on the waves of my release, relaxation and exhaustion meet head on and set me adrift, and I hold tight to Connor, trying my hardest to hang on for as long as I can.

 

 _I have to stay awake_ , I think, as Connor’s fingers slide from between my thighs to trail over my half-bared hip. _I need to savor this, not waste the time we have left with something as petty as unconsciousness._

 

And in that way that Connor has of reading my mind (and then ignoring it and doing as he pleases anyway), he pulls the blanket over our entwined bodies, murmuring in some language that sounds harsh and guttural at first but gradually soothes what little tension remains in me until I can’t resist the pull of sleep any longer.

 

“Sleep, lass. Will be here when ye wake.”

...

 

Many terrifying hours later, after the remnants of my life have shattered around me one last time, I find myself staring off into the gathering darkness, wishing I’d tried just a little harder to stay awake.


	35. Chapter 35

_“Hey, hun, you really need to get up.” Rocco looks even better today. His color is good, his hair is silky and styled, and even his beard is neatly trimmed. But he’s worried, his body radiating tension as fidgets in the chair across from me. I frown at him, having just stabbed my fork into a choice piece of pastry._

 

_“I just got here. You get up.”_

 

_He huffs, a long-suffering sound of someone who regularly has to deal with idiots. I guess the tables have turned now._

 

_“They’re coming for you, and you need to get up now while you still have time.”_

 

_I glance around; the normally busy little bistro is deserted, except for the two of us. A dense fog presses against the windows, rendering almost everything beyond the cafe invisible. When I stare hard, though, I can barely make out shadowy silhouettes lurking just beyond the point of clear sight. In the way of dreams, I know I can’t go out there, but I can't stay here, either. They (whatever or whoever they are) will be coming in soon, and I need to be gone before they do._

 

_But this is the last time I’m ever going to have my date night with Rocco; what if I never see him again?_

 

_“But I just got here, Roc, and we’ve got this whole pignolata-”_

 

_“I swear to God in Heaven, I am not done haunting your stubborn ass yet! Now, seriously, Grace, go now!”_

...

 

I shoot bolt upright in bed, startling Connor awake next to me. My heart hammers a painful staccato in my chest, and a thin sheen of cold sweat makes me shiver.

 

“What, love? What is it?”

 

“Something’s wrong.” I don’t know why I’m whispering, but in the dim light filtering through the curtains, everything in the room seems alien and just...off. Something isn’t right, someone is…Rocco said...I can’t think member!

 

I scramble out of bed and into my jeans, slipping shoes on even before I have my jeans fully zipped.

 

“Didja hear somethin’, lass? Another dream?”

 

“No, Connor…I mean, yes, but I don’t remember...I just...I can’t remember, and I can't explain, but we have to leave.”

 

As testament to exactly how fucked up our lives have become, Connor leaves off further questioning and immediately readies himself, as well. We’re dressed in a matter of moments, and I decide to use whatever time I have left before this unknown shit hits the fan to consolidate my belongings.

 

The suitcase holds mostly movies, with a couple of keepsakes from our date at the carnival and a couple of extra pairs of shoes. I extract the shoes and t-shirt, but the movies and stuffed animals get shut back up in the case and shoved as far under the bed as I can reach. This earns a raised eyebrow from Connor, but also a quick nod of approval.

 

I drop the shoes and shirt on the dresser and open my duffel and backpack to run a quick eye over the contents. The backpack holds essentials like plain shirts and jeans, some underwear, and my toiletries. The duffel holds my jewelry box, more clothes, and the manila envelope I noticed last night with Murphy. After a few moments consideration, I pull the bulky bottles shampoo and conditioner out, leaving soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. I shove my extra shoes and t-shirt in the backpack, as well as my wallet, the envelope of cash, and a couple of small things from my purse, which promptly joins the suitcase under the bed.

 

“Can this be folded?” I ask Connor, clutching the envelope. He looks up from his own bag, where he’s efficiently packing both clothing and guns alike. He gives me a swift nod before extracting a small pocket knife from the side of his bag. He raises his eyebrows at me, waiting for my assenting nod before tossing the knife to me. It folds open easily enough before the blade locks in place. Both handle and blade are an unassuming black, although the blade has obviously been sharpened a few times.

 

“Press dat tab dere below th’blade to close it back. Mind yer fingers; Murphy just sharpened it yesterday. Use th’clip t’keep it on ye at all times, ye understand? ‘Tis small, but it’s better dan nothin’, an’ y’can hide it easy enough.”

 

Instead of answering aloud, I follow his instructions and slide the knife into my right hip pocket, making sure the clip catches and holds it in place. My hands are shaking as I fold the envelope and slide it into a front pocket of my backpack. I take a couple more shirts and some underwear from the duffel, stuffing my backpack almost to the breaking point. I glance at my jewelry box, mentally reviewing the contents, before reluctantly shoving the entire sports bag under the bed to join my other things.

 

A thought occurs to me just as I’m about to zip my backpack, and I pull out the envelope of cash. I grab three hundred dollar bills from the packet, and then shove the rest as far down into my bag as I can before burying it under clothes and zipping every open pocket I can find.

 

I’m searching the room for anything I might’ve forgotten when a pounding on the door makes me yelp and nearly stumble. I don’t need Connor’s frantic signal to stuff my hands over my mouth and duck down behind the foot of the bed.

 

“Con! Lemme in, now!”

 

A wave of ice rolls through my stomach as Connor sprints to the door, opening the locks and letting his brother duck inside the room. Murphy is already explaining before Connor has time to finish bolting the door.

 

“Smecker want d t’go ahead an’ meet wit’ us, so we went ahead, but we hadn’t even sat down when Da spotted a couple o’Yakavetta’s guys sniffin’ around th’place. Smecker told him t’get Grace an’ meet a couple o’dem detectives in a dark blue Caddy a few blocks over in dat alley behind th’tavern on L Street. Da’s gonna take her so you an’ I can…”

 

He trails off, taking in my ready appearance and Connor’s packed bag.

 

“Ye knew?”

 

I shake my head, biting my lip hard to keep the panic from rising any higher. I stand, rubbing my arms to try and shake the cold off. “Just had a feeling, so I went with it. Is this it, then?”

 

Murphy hesitates a moment, then he’s across the room in two strides, crushing me against his chest. His kiss is fierce, desperate, and too short.

 

“I love ye. I’ve got no idea when, but I’m gonna see ye again. Gonna find ye someday when all dis mess is over. Now promise me ye won’t do any more stupid shit, or I won’t be able t’stop worryin’ once ye leave me sight.”

 

After everything we’ve been through, all I can do is agree, and then it’s Connor’s turn. His kiss is equally overwhelming and inadequate, but neither of us have words. I can see in his eyes he wants to repeat his younger brother’s emphatic promise of an eventual reunion, but he no longer believes it quite enough to say aloud.

 

“Boys, lemme in. Tis time.”

 

I shrug my backpack on, tightening the straps so the overfull bag won’t bounce if I have to run. Noah nods in brusque approval, stepping over to the window and raising it. He pulls one of his guns from the holster vest hidden under his coat before sticking his head out over the fire escape. I wait, shaking with nerves, until he finally pulls his head back in and nods to me. He climbs over the sill onto the metal grating and reaches a hand inside the room.

 

As my fingers slide into his, I glance back at Connor and Murphy one last time. God, everything is...they…

 

“Come find me when this is over,” I say. My voice trembles, but I can’t cry. Running and crying are very bad ideas, and I’d very much like to survive the day. “Take care of each other, live through this, and come find me.”

 

“We’ll get ye a message through Smecker somehow,” Connor says. “Don't care what it takes; we’ll send for ye or come get ye ourselves when dis is over.”

 

I want to ask him where this sudden conviction came from when only seconds ago he couldn’t even put voice to these thoughts, but Noah’s hand tugs me forward, and I have to climb the windowsill or fall. Then we’re scrambling as quietly and inconspicuously as possible down metal grating and rungs in the bright afternoon.

 

Noah stops me once we hit the ground, placing both hands on my shoulders and steadying me.

 

“We’ve got t’move quick an’ easy, like we’ve got an appointment somewhere, but not like we're runnin’ from somethin’. Look as worried as ye like, but don’t let it get to ye as we’re movin’. Hold me hand an’ don’t let go, lest I tell ye t’run on wit’out me. Ye ken where we're goin’?”

 

“Yeah, I’ve been to-“

 

“Good. If we get separated, ye run like fuckin’ hell an’ just get there, no matter what ye see goin’ on wit’ me. Promise me if I tell ye t’run dat ye’ll go wit’out question.”

 

There’s no point in arguing, so I simply swallow as best I can with my sandpaper mouth and throat, and I nod once. He releases my shoulders, taking my left hand with his right. He slips his left hand, still holding his gun, into his coat pocket, and I reach into my right pocket, gripping my tiny, inadequate knife so hard I’m sure the imprint will be in my palm for days.

 

I can’t imagine what kind of couple we must look like as we exit the alley: Noah, in his trench coat, black drivers cap, and blackout sunglasses; me, in my oldest jeans and slip-on shoes, my just-had-sex hair, and my stuffed backpack; the two of us clutching hands like lovers in springtime, late for a mysterious appointment.

 

But it’s Boston, so nobody even spares us a second glance. I know my eyes are shifting around nervously, but it’s the only outlet I can give my anxiety right now, and, anyway, I don’t know who or what to even keep a lookout for. It’s not like Yakavetta’s men are going to be wearing name tags or carrying machine guns in the open.

 

We’re about two blocks from the tavern, and I’m just starting to trust our dumb luck, when Noah suddenly squeezes my hand hard before yanking me into a bear hug and kissing me full on the lips. I don’t have time for the shock to settle before he squeezes me even closer to whisper into my ear.

 

“Dey’re about half a block b’hind us. Run as fast an’ straight as ye can, an’ don't stop til ye get t’dose d’tectives. Get flat in th’backseat floorboard an’ tell dem t’go. I got dis, lass.”

 

I want to argue so badly. Every fiber of my being wants to scream at him to run with me, but I promised both him and Murphy I would be smart. In the end, all I can do is nod and kiss his cheek in farewell. He releases me suddenly and hisses, “Go, now!” before shoving me away and turning to face whoever it is that’s following us.

 

I don't wait to see or hear what erupts behind me. I take off in the direction of the tavern, dodging people as best I can and ignoring the angry curses from the ones I can’t. The street is noisy and crowded on the warm afternoon, and what with my frenzied breathing and the general noise of traffic and people, I can’t hear any sounds of pursuit. I don’t have the focus or energy to panic, putting all my concentration into getting one foot in front of the other as fast as possible without tripping.

 

Then the tavern looms ahead, and I fly past it, nearly smacking face first into the brick wall as I skid into the alley. I put on an extra burst of speed as I spot the car, praying frantically that the two figures I see inside are some of the detectives I met a few nights ago. I almost cry with relief when I recognize Greenly and Duffy inside, and I pound on the back window frantically, yanking on the handle until the lock pops and the door jerks opens. I throw myself down inside, wrenching the door shut and pulling off my backpack so I can wedge myself into the floorboard.

 

“I don’t know what happened after he told me to run, but Noah said two of them were following us, and to get to you as fast I could. I didn’t hear any gunfire, but I don’t know what happened!”

 

At least, that’s what I mean to say, but there’s a lot of gasping and sobbing (and a little choking) involved on my end, so the words don’t come out quite as I meant them to. Luckily, Duffy is behind the wheel and is apparently fluent in panicked speech, because he immediately puts the already-running car in gear, and then we’re rolling smoothly out of the other end of the alley and into traffic.

 

To his credit, instead of questioning me, Greenly simply dumps his jacket casually over the back of his seat, looking over at Duffy like he’s making conversation, and says, “Go ahead and cover up. Lotta traffic the way we’re going.”

 

The ride is silent and surreal, and more than once I have a hysterical moment where I question if I ever woke up after the incident in the alley way back in December. I mean, real life isn’t this fucked up. People get in car wrecks, they get cancer, they break bones; that’s the normal kind of fucked up. They don’t get drawn into a war with the mafia and get chased down the street in broad daylight. This is a bad dream inspired by head trauma, too much alcohol, and one of Connor’s movies, that’s all.

 

I must have I hit my head harder than I realized back in the alley. Maybe this whole thing has been one long, insane coma dream. Maybe Rocco is alive, and everyone is fine, and I’m just lying in a hospital bed, healing. Maybe I’m going to wake up soon, and the boys will be pissed but relieved that I’m awake, and I’ll handle everything better this time, I’ll understand how stupid I acted and why they’re so mad, and then we can-

 

“You can come out now,” Duffy says, interrupting my wishful thinking. “We haven’t had any tails for the last fifteen minutes, and we’re almost to the bus station.”

 

Bus station?

 

“Smecker said to go to the counter and ask for the ticket for Teresa Sullivan. He’s sending you on a roundabout trip to throw off anyone trying to follow you, so you’re gonna be traveling for a few days, and you're gonna have to pick up your next ticket at the end of this route, and another at the end of that one. He’s got someone waiting for you at the end. Ya need anything before we drop you off?”

 

Numb with shock, all I can do is silently shake my head. God, Smecker must have been planning this out since he talked with Connor and Murphy and Noah in the first motel room. For all I know, this is Connor’s plan in the first place. It’s definitely complicated enough, that’s for sure. A few _days_ on the bus? What if I miss one of my transfers or get off at the wrong place or-

 

“He said to call him if anything goes wrong or if you think you’re being followed. Do you still have his number?” Considering I’ve barely responded to any of his directions or explanations so far, Duffy is being exceptionally kind and patient with me. Maybe I look as stupid as I feel right now. He pulls the car smoothly into the drop-off lane and shifts into park before turning in the driver’s seat to look at me.

 

“You can do this. You’re gonna be fine. Your ticket will tell you where you’re going to end up, and your next two tickets will do the same. Keep your backpack with you, get as much sleep between stops as you can, and keep a watch while you're awake. Sit near the bus driver. Remember to eat something, and try to go to the bathroom in the terminals. They aren't anywhere close to the best, but they’re miles better than the ones on the buses.”

 

When I don’t respond, it’s Greenly who reaches back and takes my hand, breaking me out of my paralysis.

 

“Hey, you were strong enough to knock out a Boston Police detective and haul his dumb ass in a closet. You were smart enough to get away from three of Boston's finest that were watching you, and you went after your friends when they needed you. You’re smart, you’re brave, and you’ve already handled worse shit than this. You can ride a few buses.”

 

Duffy stares at his partner in shock, and I’m ashamed to say I must be giving him a similar look, because Greenly flushes a deep maroon and drops my hand like it bit him.

 

“And if either of you tell anybody I said that shit, I’ll fuck you both up. I don’t care if one of you is a chick. Now, go on. Security is headed this way.”

 

With that rousing bit of inspiration, I slide from the car and head toward the ticket counter, lugging my bag along with me. I can barely breathe, I can barely think, but somehow I’m supposed to go start a new life, not knowing when - or if - I’ll ever see my family again.

 

I’ve got this.

…

 

It’s three days later, and I am in a foul mood. I have traveled through more states than I could identify on a map, much less remember. I’ve had more reflection time than I’ve ever wanted in my life (though I still have no clue what I want to do with myself once I’m settled...wherever I end up). I’ve stared at the stars (gorgeous, but I’ve had my fill), I’ve counted license plates (does anybody ever see a Hawaii on the mainland?), I’ve read a of paperback I picked up in one of the bus terminals (Stephen King, while awesome, is not the best choice when one is already on edge and scared shitless), and even though I’ve managed to keep my teeth brushed and my face washed, I haven’t had a shower since the last day at the hotel.

 

Like Connor said, you can only wipe down from the sink so many times.

 

We pull into the last stop of my final route, and I find myself in Birmingham, Alabama, of all places. The heat and humidity slap me in the face as I step off the bus (for hopefully the last time in my entire life), and I groan aloud at the thought of how much my body odor is about to magnify.

 

I’m so far passed being frightened that I’ve gone right into pissed off and grumpy as all hell. I should be terrified, but I'm so tired and dirty and sore that I just can’t find the energy to even be worried. I have no idea who I’m meeting or where I’m meeting them; I assume he (or she) will be here at the terminal somewhere, as I’ve miraculously made it through all my transfers without messing up. I just want some decent food that isn’t on a bun, a shower, and sleep that doesn’t involve sitting up or curling into a ball.

 

I just hope I find the person soon. As glad as I am to set foot on solid land, I really don’t need any more downtime alone with my thoughts. I’ve managed to repress all (most) of my worrying about Noah’s fate on the sidewalk or what must have happened with Connor and Murphy by distracting myself with the trivial issues of bus travel. But now that I’m at the end of the road (as far as I know), and I have no idea who or what to look for, I can feel the tendrils of worry begin to creep back in. What if they-

 

“Teresa? Teresa _Sullivan_?! Oh, my god, girl, it _is_ you! _You look so good!_ ”

 

I only just recognize the false name that was printed on all my tickets, but it’s the blatant lie at the end of the exclamation that catches my attention. I’ve never looked further from good in my life. I’m covered in road grime, my hair is one solid mass of nastiness, and the bruising that peeks out from under my various bandages is only just starting to fade into a sickly, yellow-brown color. So, of course, the woman who throws her arms around me is radiant and gorgeous, all blond hair and clean smells and a giant, glowing white smile

 

“It’s me, girl, Eunice! What do you think of the blond?” She asks, holding out a long strand. Before I can formulate a response, she’s already talking again. “Fun, right?! My mama said no one would take me seriously, but I gotta tell ya, it’s been great for gettin’ some of the guys down at the Bureau to shut up long enough for me to get a word in. Anyway, enough about me! How are you?! It’s been ages!”

 

God, this girl is good. Anyone sent here by Smecker would have to be a consummate professional, but this girl is giving off the sweet, charming Southern belle vibe in waves, and it’s got to be at least a little of a put-on. She pulls back a little, and sure enough there’s enough steel in her sharp gaze to rebuild the Titanic.

 

Grateful for the opening (and to be in the care of someone who so obviously knows what they’re doing), I give her my best tired smile and return the hug as well as I can. Human contact is still human contact, and it’s the first time I’ve touched someone in three days. I hope my stink doesn't make her eyes water too hard.

 

“I didn’t recognize you. The blond definitely suits you. I’m just so tired from all this travel, or I would’ve said right off. I’m dead on my feet, and bless you for not mentioning my odor. I haven’t showered since I left...home.”

 

She smiles again, but I can tell she caught my slip. Eunice releases me from the hug and links her arm through mine, guiding me skillfully through the crowd and out of the station. I cringe as both the heat and humidity intensify once we’re out in the direct sunlight, but Eunice’s steps never falter. “Come on, honey, we’ll get you back to my place. You can get a snack and a shower, then a long nap. Tonight, I’ll cook you a real dinner, and we can catch up on everything.”

 

Eunice may have just become my new best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogues imminent. Muchas gracias to Siarh and Rhanon_Brodie (Glass_Jacket).


	36. Epilogues

**_Three Months Later, the day after the Yakavetta trial; Birmingham, Alabama_ **

**…**

 

I settle back in my desk chair, blowing out a long breath between pursed lips. The paper in front of me (well, essay, really; I’m staring at a computer screen, so I don’t rightly feel I can call it a paper until I’ve printed it out) blurs a little, and I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes. I’ve been working for the last few hours on this research project for my British Lit class, and I think my entire brain is about to deflate.

 

The television blares a national news broadcast from the den (I will never get used to Southernisms...why not call it a living room like any sane person?), and I feel like chucking one of my thousand-pound textbooks at Eunice’s perfectly coiffed head right now. She’s the one who talked me into enrolling in summer classes at the local university when I couldn’t decide what I wanted to do with myself (a surprisingly easy task when my roommate works for the FBI and has a high-up connection within said organization to help me get my false identity in place in plenty of time to register). She could at least keep the noise level down when I’m studying.

 

“Eunice, can you drop the volume? I’m working on that essay for Dr. Murphy, and-“

 

Then I hear the words “Saints of Boston,” and my mouth goes dry. I’m in the living room before she can even raise the remote. I snatch it from her hand, turning the volume up a few more clicks.

 

An anchorman reads from a sheet of paper in his hand, his brow furrowed, and I’m pretty sure this is probably the most sensational thing he’s reported so far in his career. I catch phrases like “These are not polite suggestions” and “On that day you will reap it, and we will send you to whatever God you wish.” A shiver runs down my spine, and in my mind, I see a sudden image of the three MacManuses, their faces twisted with righteous anger, expelling this tirade upon the world.

 

I glance at Eunice, who shakes her head silently and nods back towards the television. She doesn’t know anything else yet, but I'm betting she’ll be on the phone with Smecker before the night is out.

 

“These are the words of the MacManus brothers and a man assumed to be their father, after they broke into the courtroom where suspected mafia don Giuseppe "Papa Joe" Yakavetta was on trial yesterday for the murder of more than a score of men. The three men held the people in the courtroom hostage as they delivered their speech and then shot Yakavetta at point blank range,” the anchorman continues. His face is grim, but there’s an uncertainty there that I can empathize completely with. He needs to show outward condemnation of these illegal acts, but he’s not completely sure he disagrees with them, either.

 

“We have a clip here from this morning where Boston reporter Sally McBride interviews local people regarding their opinions of these vigilantes’ actions.”

 

The camera swaps over, and suddenly I feel more at home than I have in months. Sally McBride, in her ever-present trench coat, strolls purposefully towards the camera, her face grim. Three police sketches line the side of the screen next to her face, and I’m startled at just how accurate the portraits are. I mean, there were no pictures of Connor and Murphy in the paper before; these drawings are all from descriptions of the three MacManuses, and they are spot-on accurate. Sally is speaking, though, so I wrench my eyes away from the drawings and try to pay attention.

 

“After the astonishing display of vigilantism during the Yakavetta trial yesterday, the largest manhunt in recent memory is being undertaken to capture the three men the media have dubbed ‘The Saints.’ This reporter went out to the street to find out what you thought about these three.”

 

Eunice takes the remote from my hand and mutes the TV, watching me with concern. I don’t feel faint or panicked, though. I let out a breath I’ve been holding since March; all three of their pictures were on the screen, which means all three of them were there in the courtroom. There's no mention of major injuries to watch for, so they’re all in reasonably good shape, or, at least, they were when they left the courthouse yesterday. Noah made it through whatever happened on the sidewalk after I left him, and he was apparently okay enough to help Connor and Murphy hold an entire courtroom hostage.

 

And then there’s the other elephant in the courtroom…

 

They killed Yakavetta.

 

He’s dead.

 

Rocco isn’t coming back, but...maybe he can rest a little better now. Not that I mind him visiting my dreams. He’s been nice enough to keep the nightmares at bay, and I love talking to him, but...I miss my friend, and seeing him almost every night in my sleep is not helping that pain get any better.

 

“So…”

 

Eunice waits, watching the expressions warring on my face as I consider my next words.

 

“I...you, uh...you promise you’ll tell me if you hear from Smecker?”

 

She nods once, and I believe her. Eunice has been nothing but supportive and transparent (as far as I know) since she took me in on nothing more than Smecker’s request. The fact that I had literally nowhere else to go hasn’t escaped me. She’s crazy smart, and she seems to just intuitively understand how I work, so we’re getting on really well. And I trust her.

 

“So, I guess I’ll...get back to work on my essay, then.” I turn to go back to my room, but she grabs my hand.

 

“Hey, you know we can talk if ya need to.”

 

 _Well, yeah_ , I think. _Who else am I going to talk to?_ But I really do appreciate her offer, and instead of voicing my inner monologue, I simply say, “Yeah, and we totally will, I swear, but I need a little while to process. Talk over dinner?”

 

“Sure, hun. Want me to go pick up our usual from The Purple Onion? I can get you extra tzatziki.”

 

“You’re the best roommate ever.”

 

“Oh, I know. Now scoot and finish that paper so ya got one less thing to fret about. Can’t stand you whining about all those assignments you’ve always got due.”

 

I settle into my desk chair again, staring blankly at the screen in front of me. I hear the jingle as Eunice grabs her keys and the snap of the front door shutting. The lock clicks behind her, and then her footsteps retreat into the setting sun.

 

Time to think. What's changed in the world since ten minutes ago? What do I know now?

 

As of this morning, Connor, Murphy, and Noah were all alive, and as the report didn’t mention anything about them being injured in anyway, I think it’s safe to assume they are still alive and holed up somewhere.

 

Rocco is still dead, but now his killer is, too. Papa Joe seemed to be pretty important, so maybe this blow to his organization might set them back a ways. Theoretically, organized crime and maybe even crime in general could significantly drop in Boston, since the scum of the world now have proof that someone is going to do something about their bullshit.

 

Does this mean...could the boys be finished? I have no way of knowing, no way of finding out unless Smecker passes on a message from the boys through Eunice. And I’m one hundred percent certain she’s going to contact Smecker tonight, so I can either wait up for the call to end, or I can grill her in the morning; either way, I’ll have more specific information soon.

 

I reach over and pluck a photo from where it leans against my desk lamp. In the picture, I’m grinning maniacally at the camera while Connor and Murphy both kiss me on the cheeks; behind us, Rocco’s shaggy face smiles just as brightly at the camera as I do, and above us all, a banner reads, “Happy New Year 1998!”

 

It was my second New Year’s Eve spent with the MacManuses, and I remember how horrifically drunk I got later on that night, but at the moment, all four of us were uncharacteristically sober. Connor, Murphy, and I had only begun our combined relationship a few months earlier, so I was still more than a little giddy when both of them paid attention to me at the same time. Rocco was on one of his frequent breaks from Donna, so he was in a great mood.

 

I only vaguely remember Doc snapping the shot right at midnight, but I got so wasted later on that I never even remembered the photo until I opened the manila envelope from Connor and Murphy the first night at Eunice’s apartment. I flip the picture over so I can re-read the boys’ note to me, scrawled hastily on the back.

 

“ _We went to see Doc when Da sent us to your place to get your stuff, and he said he wanted you to have this. He sends his love and says he’s going to miss you_.”

 

As I set the photo back in place, light catches on the stones in my ring, and I tilt my hand, watching the circles of diamonds and green sapphires sparkle in their white gold setting. I found it in the envelope, along with the photo, though, sadly, no additional note.

 

Honestly, though, Connor and Murphy didn’t have to say anything else. Connor’s face when I was trying the ring on, all those extra shifts at the plant and the overtime they worked for so many months; they must have been trying to save up the thousands of dollars this tiny bit of rock and metal cost, and then they literally fell into a sudden fortune. What else would they do with the money? Besides buy more guns and ammo, of course.

 

And whiskey. Let’s not forget the whiskey.

 

I’ve wondered several times since I found the ring when exactly they found the time to go back to the antique store to pick it up amidst the chaos of those last couple of weeks. I’ve worn it ever since, taking it off only to shower (it catches my hair, even in the ultra-short pixie cut I’m sporting these days, and Eunice got me a special dish in the bathroom just to hold the ring so I won’t lose it).

 

But they’re alive. My boys and...my...Da...My family is alive. My friend is dead, but, then, so is the man who killed him. Rocco is avenged, and Boston, if not the world, is actually safer now. I don’t know if the boys are done, but it’s possible. Anything is possible.

 

But until I hear something definite, all I can do it wait. And hope.

 

I sigh heavily, a dull ache starting right between my eyes.

 

And I can finish this stupid essay.

**_…_ **

**_Two days after the Yakavetta trial; Boston, Massachusetts_ **

**_..._ **

Smecker sits back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his frowning face. He stares at the piece of paper he’s just placed on the flaming log, watching as a ribbon of flames consumes the words “ _need you with us. Tell Smecker what you want to_ ” as the letter crumbles to ash.

 

“Are ye sure t'was th’right thing t’do? Dey seemed pretty adamant-“

 

“They can’t be distracted,” Smecker murmurs, cutting off the priest. His eyes reflect the orange of the flames even as the light deepens the lines of his face. His jaw clenches for a moment, then he stands and turns away from the fireplace, brushing off his suit and straightening his tie.

 

“Ye don’t think they’ll-“

 

“They’ll believe what I tell them. She was indecisive, changed her mind more than once. All I have to tell them is that she’s happy where she is, and they’ll leave without question. We need to get them away from the heat of this manhunt, out of the country entirely for a while. They can’t sit around waiting for some woman who is ultimately nothing but a death sentence for all of them. Once I calm this media storm down, we can bring them back and get them to work. We’re doing this for the greater good, because they can do what we can’t.”

 

For just a moment, Smecker hesitates, and the priest crosses himself fervently.

 

“God forgive us fer what we’ve done. If dey find out-“

 

Smecker’s bark of laughter is as sharp and humorless as his shark’s grin. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, shaking it loose, sticking it between his lips, and flicking a lighter all in one fluid, practiced movement. He sets the tip aflame, inhaling deeply, his cheeks hollowing alarmingly before he finally speaks.

 

“Padre, if those boys find out what we’ve done, it ain’t God’s forgiveness we need to worry about. Now let’s get them out of the country before you crack and confess everything to the wrong person.”

 

The priest’s bushy eyebrows shoot up in alarm, but Smecker has already stepped out the door, shutting it firmly before the older man can respond. He makes his way out of the church, blinking as he steps into the bright sunlight. He shakes his suit coat calmly, smoothing out a couple of wrinkles before running through his fingers through his hair. He inhales once more, taking the cigarette from his lips and tapping it absentmindedly, scattering ash over the steps.

 

“It’s only the start, boys,” he mutters to no one in particular. “Got a lot of work left to do.”

**_…_ **

**_Ten days after the Yakavetta trial; a container ship halfway across the Atlantic_ **

**_…_ **

 

Noah folds his hands behind his head, marveling at the sheer open space and comfort of his current living quarters. After spending the better (worse) part of three decades in solitary confinement, the inside of this metal container seems spacious and open. Not as open as the fields and village streets he only just recalls from his childhood, or even the dirty and bustling streets of Boston from his teen years, but still far superior to the six-by-nine-foot box that was his residence for so long.

 

In the week that they’ve been in the container, neither of his boys has spoken much, but Noah is still getting used to the sounds of conversation, so the lack of speech doesn’t disturb him. What with the groaning of the metal ship, the occasional shouts from the crew that filter in, and the whoosh and rush of the ocean itself, it’s a far cry from the absolute, ringing silence of his cell, and he revels in even the smallest noises.

 

He’d like to say he’s not overwhelmed, but that’s not entirely true. Not that anyone could tell by looking at his face; he’s worn this mask of blank, muted rage since his father died, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to take it off entirely again.

 

Grace did manage to get a smile or two from him, though.

 

“Hey, Murph, are ye awake?”

 

Even after missing most of their thirty years, the last couple of weeks have educated Noah tremendously in the habits and nuances of his boys, especially as the last seven days have been spent confined in their own personal container. He knows that his eldest is fully aware of his brother’s state of consciousness; the two boys (men, he’s going to have to get used to calling them) are continuously aware of the other’s presence, often feigning ignorance for the sake of pettiness merely to get under the other’s skin. Case in point, Connor’s question is designed solely to get Murphy’s attention before he starts shit.

 

Noah settles back and waits, a grin hidden behind the tangles of his facial hair.

 

“Aye. Fuck ye want? ‘M pretendin’ t’be asleep over here.”

 

“Ye t’ink she got th’letter by now?”

 

“Prob’ly. Smecker said it might take a while ‘cause he needed t’be careful an’ whatnot, but she shoulda gotten word by now.”

 

“Ye don’t think she-”

 

“Ye know she’s gonna be on th’first boat or plane or whatever shit Smecker can sort fer her t’get t’us, but not til we’re settled somewhere an’ he knows where t’send us. Ye know all dis; why th’fuck are ye blatherin’ on t’me like ye don’t?”

 

Connor doesn’t answer, and the comforting sounds of the ocean at night once more settle over the container. Noah is just starting to drift off when his eldest speaks again.

 

“Ye really fuckin’ braid her hair? Like, chick-flick-moment sorta shit?”

 

“Fuck off, Connor, I ain’t in th’mood.”

 

“O’course, ye musta done make-overs, as well. Ain’t a proper sleepover wit’out make-up an’ all dat gunk you girls like t’slather all over yer faces, aye?”

 

“I’m fuckin’ warnin’ ye, Connor, now piss off!”

 

A couple more minutes pass without comment, then-

 

“Did ye talk about boys, too? ‘Cause she’s got some real stories t’tell about me, boy-o.”

 

Noah’s eyes close as the sound of Murphy ripping Connor out of his bed echo around the walls. His grin widens as his boys roll around on the floor, banging into anything in their path, cursing each other as fists collide with flesh. Another week in here with these two, and he will probably be tired of their antics, but for now, he’s content to let them work out their frustrations while he gets to know them.

 

Far, far superior to solitary confinement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue is dedicated to all my Boondock Saints writer friends. We may not be a group anymore, but you all helped me get started and you kept me going. Siarh, Rhanon Brodie, DeDe324, irishartemis, Incog Ninja, AislingIsobel, bleedingrose0608, kselzer, pitbullsrok…you all beta-ed, suggested, edited, and basically made these stories possible. A special shout out to Roaddog469, whose amazing Boondock Saints OC arc inspired me in the first place; I would never have written these stories without first reading hers and thinking, “Huh. I wonder if I could do that, too?” Most of you don’t follow this arc anymore; you’ve moved on to other fandoms or stopped writing altogether, but thank you, all the same.
> 
> We did it, folks. We made it through the first movie. It took me a while, but we got here. Major Milestone sort of thing. To be honest, I feel a little numb. My insides are dancing and singing and crying, but I’m feeling it all in a removed, detached sort of way. This story arc has run my emotions through a gauntlet beyond what I ever thought something fictional could. Blood, sweat, tears, snot, vomit, all that good stuff. I have plans and schemes for the second movie and onward, but for at least a little while, I’m going to take a break from the arc and let Grace and the boys get some sleep. I’ll be trying on some other fandoms for a while, maybe revisiting my Whovian roots or trying out Supernatural for a bit, but, in the end, we all know where my real home is.
> 
> Some of you have been here from the beginning, and some of you have jumped on somewhere along the trail, but all of you have shown your love or support in so many ways that matter. Thank you for sticking with the story for as long as you have, through the smutty beginnings and terrible typos to the actual plot development and the gritty not-quite-end. You helped me push this arc from a nameless girl hopping MacManus beds to a full-fledged character with a story of her own that hopefully is not quite done yet. I can’t express to you how much your words and support and occasional reminders have helped me to move forward with stories I thought were dead. I will honestly say that I was one chapter away from just offing Grace on the bus. Siarh talked me off that ledge, and you were all spared having to watch Grace get a stiletto slipped between her ribs. 
> 
> Let’s just say I was in a rough spot. 
> 
> Here’s just a few stats I dug up from my time working on this story arc:  
> \- 3/23/2012: Cold Feet published.  
> \- 6/26/2016: Clean Break published.  
> \- 5/15/2018: Clean Break completed.  
> \- Roughly 290,000 words of Boondock Saints stories, most of them in this OC arc, and almost half of them in this story alone.  
> \- 29 stories published since the start of this arc, 19 in this arc alone.  
> \- 12,874:number of times my Spellcheck almost punched me in the face because of my insistence that I attempt to write in Irish dialect.  
> \- Innumerable mental meltdowns, only a few of which are directly related to this story.  
> \- 3 miscarriages and 1 son, now 3 ½ years old and driving me just as batty as my uncooperative characters do.  
> \- 3 major medical procedures.  
> \- 5 new scars, only one of which is in anyway related to this story.  
> \- 6 loved ones lost, so many new ones gained.  
> \- 7 jobs, ranging from full-time teaching to Moe’s (as in, “Welcome to Moe’s!”)  
> \- Moved to/lived in 5 different states  
> \- Moved almost 3600 miles total  
> \- I learned to drink and actually like coffee without sweetener, although I still can’t successfully roll up my own sleeves, so I don’t count as a real adult yet.  
> \- How about the roughly 7000+ rumors about Boondock Saints III and/or Prequels that were finally squashed/confirmed when Troy Duffy recently announced the go-ahead for the television show prequel? If anyone has Duffy’s ear, let him know I’m available for consultation/rewrites on the script, if he needs any help. ;)
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me through the bad dialogue and the plot holes. Thank you for sticking with me through quick updates and one shots and months-long gaps (let us not forget the 5-6 month gaps between the last five or six stories of this arc, not to mention the nearly two years this particular story took). Thank you for sticking around long enough for me to turn Grace into a real character. To everyone who reviewed, favorite, followed, and viewed, thank you, as always, for your time and love.

**Author's Note:**

> Are you guys ready for this? We're about to hit the first movie head-on. Stick with me on this one. It's going to be rough.


End file.
